


where the heart is

by nefertiti



Series: different roads sometimes lead to the same castle [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Cousin Incest, Cousin Love, F/M, Incest, R plus L equals J, Sibling Love, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-09-07 00:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8776273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefertiti/pseuds/nefertiti
Summary: It hurt to think of Jon. He may not have stayed dead for long, but she mourned him all the same. When he saw her again would he be happy? Disappointed at the vengeful, ruthless child-woman she’d become? Would he even know her when he saw her? Would he even want to know her?





	1. Reunion

Arya entered an inn and she found herself almost annoyed as she shivered in her thin furs. The cold was unbearable. She almost wished that she had stolen a thicker cloak from Harwin before she escaped the Brotherhood once more, then perhaps she wouldn’t be so chilly.

She asked the barmaid for a cup of mead before she sat on one of the stools trying to pretend that she wasn’t shivering.

She had spent so much time in the Riverlands, then in the Braavosi sun that the cold felt foreign to her. It was a betrayal to feel this way, she knew. She was a maiden of winter, daughter of the north, a Stark of Winterfell. Cold ran through the veins of Starks as steady and as sure as the beating of a pulse.

 _I just need time to readjust_ , she told herself as she signalled for another cup of mead.

She had heard some men in a tavern say that a white raven had been sent from the Citadel a moon ago. Winter has come. That may explain it. In the deepest trenches of her heart, Arya had always been northern. Yet she had never known a true winter.

Winter has truly come; the winter wind was blowing and she was a lone wolf. Her parents were dead, her sister in the wind, her brothers all slaughtered. She was well and truly alone now.

Well, not alone. She had found Nymeria wandering through the riverlands with an army of wolves at her back. None of the other wolves dared touch Arya; it was as if they knew their place, but Nymeria stuck close to her on her journey north. Even when Arya stole a feeble excuse for a horse, Nymeria trotted next to her slowly, unwilling to leave her be. She was grateful for it. It was as if her direwolf missed her as much as Arya missed her direwolf. Nymeria didn’t hate Arya like she had feared. That was enough to let a small smile fall from her lips.

The smile dropped from her lips when she thought of her mother. Mother Merciless they called her, Lady Stoneheart and her heart was indeed cold and her deeds merciless. Arya had committed the gravest of sins for her, to give her peace. It was the gift of mercy true but it made her a kinslayer now; no better than the Lannister Imp or Ramsay Snow, and still her wolf stood beside her licking and passing her snout all over her hands.

Arya had almost forgotten what it felt like to be so loved.

She wanted to go home, to Winterfell. She always felt bravest and strongest inside those walls, but she would not be returning to the Winterfell she knew. She had heard tales in this inn and in taverns all through the north, the exaggerations, she spotted with a keen eye, but the truth was still hard to bear; burned, alongside Rickon and Bran, her dear little brothers. And Jon Snow – she didn’t hear a word about him and it made her equal parts angry and devastated. Their lack of words confirmed what she already knew. No one would bother gossiping about a bastard long dead.

She couldn’t cry about it now. She’d done enough of that in Braavos and on the journey west. She needed her wits about her; she came back for a reason and it wasn’t just vengeance. She would singlehandedly drag Ramsay Snow and his men out of her house’s seat if she had to, but she missed home more than anything.  She had to go home. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell and there were no Starks left but her.

She would have to journey to the Wall after she saw what was left of her home. She would find the turncloaks who murdered her brother and she would make them suffer. She would smell their blood and taste their pain. She would remind them what wolves do when their pack has been attacked.

Arya had sold the horse that she hadn’t even bothered to name so she could pay for some food. She never forgot what it was like to be starved, to live off worms and acorn paste and bugs just so she could survive. _Never again_ , she told herself.

She was going to Winterfell.

Home.

The woman behind the bar gave her a nod when Arya dropped some copper on the table and got ready to make her leave. She was going with a hunk of soft bread, some hard cheese and a wine cask filled with water.

Arya was almost out the door when she heard someone mention, the King in the North and she paused. That was Robb, and her brother with his auburn curls and easy smile was dead.

Arya bent down to unlace and relace her boots, listening to every word the drunk man was saying, but she could hardly believe her ears. _The Stark bastard is King now_. That couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Jon was dead. She was still mourning him; she still wanted to take vengeance on everyone who wronged their family, who wronged Jon.

Arya stood and faced the door; her farce had gone on long enough. Someone would take notice and realise that she was eavesdropping.

She contemplated the three men for a few minutes before she walked up to them, she’d have to act like a silly girl who only understood how to be pretty. They were well into their cups and they likely would not remember a shy girl with a shaved head asking insipid questions.

“What do you want boy?” the man with hair like the moonlight asked. He then trailed his eyes up and down her body, “Not a boy then.”

“My sex should matter little to you,” Arya said sweetly, and the man seemed amused. “I heard you speaking as I was about to leave and pray tell me: is there really is a King in the North? All the Starks had died last I heard.”

The black haired man next to his companions gave her a feline grin. “Starks are hard to kill, or do you want me to try. I’d do anything for that pretty face of yours.”

The least drunk of the trio rolled his eyes. “Ignore Alvyn, he’d try to fuck everyone who walked his way. The bastard boy was stabbed to death during some sort of mutiny at the Wall. Some witch woman brought Ned Stark’s bastard back from the dead, and the Northerners crowned him king.”

Jon deserted the Watch, she could hardly believe it. Jon was many things, but he valued honour and he knew the price for desertion. But he had died. The man said so. He lived and died at his post, and then he was resurrected by a witch. _A witch? A red priestess more likely_ , Arya thought, _like Thoros_. Lord Beric told her once that you lost something of yourself every time you’ve been reborn. What had Jon lost? Who was he now? Would he even know her if he saw her again?

She smiled a bright smile at the man, betraying none of her thoughts, and thanked him before leaving. His eyes looked dazed, she put it down to drunkenness.

She would have to make the rest of her journey on foot, but she found that she didn’t mind, pain had become her dearest friend. She could always withstand her. She might get frostbite but it was only a mile away to her castle.

Mayhaps she should have stayed at the inn for the night, in a warm bed and her worries far from her mind. It was a pretty wish, but she knew she would never do it. She faced everything she had to face headstrong, that much hasn’t changed.

It was time for her to see Winterfell once more. She needed to know if her brother was truly alive. She had heard tales of a false Arya Stark married to a Bolton; this could just be another pretender but she couldn’t think hard on it now. If she did, she would not be able to move.

Nymeria beckoned her pack – their pack, to surround Arya so their fur would keep her warm as she trudged through the snow. Every wolf but Nymeria was still wary to touch her, but she stayed warm enough. Arya made her way through the blanket of snow on the ground. She would return to Winterfell in the dark and cold, but it made no difference. She could withstand the cold with her pack at her side and she had long learned the sweetness of darkness.

She glanced to the heavens; it was black skies with thick grey clouds; and the tiniest spot of the moon was visible. Snowflakes fell from the sky; wet and cold. Arya howled at the moon and her direwolf and her wolf cousins did the same.

She wondered if Jon was as bonded to his direwolf the way she was hers. If he could slip inside Ghost in dreams the way she did with Nymeria.

The girl that she had been all those years ago would be secretly terrified treading the kingsroad at nightfall, all by herself; but with Needle at her side and her wolves surrounding her, she’d never felt safer. And even without them – her wolf family, or Needle, she could show a grown man what she was made of.

The thought suddenly came to her, _I don’t have hair anymore_ ; her hair was shaved bald. _If Jon truly lived, I would look a stranger to him._

Arya dragged her hand over her head as she saw the castle from the distance. The bristles covering her scalp would not be flowing into long tresses anytime soon. Jon wouldn’t be able to muss her hair again for a long while. The thought made her sad.

It hurt to think of Jon. He may not have stayed dead for long, but she mourned him all the same. When he saw her again would he be happy? Disappointed at the vengeful, ruthless child-woman she’d become? Would he even know her when he saw her? Would he even want to know her?

She hoped he would. She didn’t want to lose him. Not again.

 _No_ , she reminded herself. _Jon_ _will want me. Jon always wants me_.

He had to. Arya was cared for, practically raised by outlaws, whores, and assassins, Jon spent time around wildlings, he even bedded one if the rumours were true. And he’d felt the cold, steely kiss of death. Death and assassins and outlaws and wildlings nothing would be able to tear them apart, as hard as anyone might try. She knew it was blind faith to trust Jon so thoroughly when she hadn’t seen him in years, when she has changed oh so much. He must have changed quite a great deal too.

Her wolf cousins retreated to the forest the nearer they got, until it was just Nymeria by her side.

When she neared Winterfell, she would have wept if there were any tears left in her. It was burned, charred. Nymeria nudged her hand with her snout and huffed. When she looked into those golden eyes it felt like if her direwolf was talking to her. _It can be fixed_ , her wolf seemed to say, _Anything can be fixed, even things kissed by the God of Death._

A sentry and two guards spotted her as she neared the east gates. She knew none of them. They were Northerners, surely, but none of these people were Father’s men or Robb’s men. Jon. They were Jon’s men.

“What do you want here boy?” the sentry asked, his voice as harsh as winter. Her hand twitched to the sword on her hip. She had no doubt that many people would want entry into the castle where the hot springs kept them warm all through the winter. But with Needle on her hip, a direwolf at her side and two dirks hidden on her body, she could understand the apprehension.

Still. She was a daughter of Winterfell and she bristled to hear her own people talk to her like that. Was that how they treated everyone who came to these gates?

“Would that I speak with the King.” Arya said firmly if not loudly.

“Winter has come boy and our king is dealing with a great deal, we can no longer host every single lowborn child who passes our way. What use are you to Winterfell?”

 _Plenty,_ she thought, restraining herself from hissing. She threw the hood off her cloak and looked at them with hard grey eyes.

“Just get him for me!” she commanded. “Tell him – tell him I said _stick ‘em with the pointy end_.”

The tall guard with a shaggy, long, beard as white as snow looked at her curiously. “And what purpose would that serve little lass?"

She ignored the way the other guards searched her face only to realise she was in fact a girl.

“You don’t have to understand, he will. Just do as I ask,” Arya replied, trying desperately to sound as firm as her father. “King Jon will be very displeased to hear that you left me out here at night in the freezing snow.”

The white haired man looked at her peculiarly before whispering something to the guard next to him. He then turned back to stare at her as if she were a town set ablaze by wildfire.

“What is it?” she asked, she knew how to detect lies, so whether or not he was truthful she would know and she would know if he was worth trusting.

“Ah it’s nothing little lass. You look like someone the king crow had been determined to find before everything turned to shit.”

Arya kept her expression completely calm but her thoughts were racing. Jon was looking for her. All while she was across the Narrow Sea.

“And perchance, why would you think that I’m this mysterious girl?” Arya asked, intrigued.

“Well you look like his twin if that’s a half ‘o it,” he said, “And the sombreness must run in the family eh. Besides, I’m not as slow-witted as some. All the pups in your family have direwolves. They’re very hard to come across this side of the wall. Am I right, Princess?”

Arya allowed her lips to quirk up in a small smile. “I’m no princess.”

“Tell that to the rest for you southron kneelers.” He shrugged.

Arya’s eyes narrowed into slits. “I am no southerner. I’m of the north.”

“Aye, I’ve had this fight with the crow before,” the white haired man agreed, eyeing the sword on her hip. “Everything pass the wall is south to us.”

To us? To – he was a–  

“You’re a wildling?” she asked curiously.

Arya shivered a little and it had nothing to do with the cold. Old Nan had told her and her brothers and sister and even her lady mother all about the wildlings. The stories she’d heard could turn a ghost even paler. She knew now that a lot of Old Nan’s stories weren’t real. Just a scary thing you’d tell a little child so they can get spooked at their bedside.

Whatever she felt, she didn’t let it show. She would not risk her control in the presence of a possible enemy.

She had heard that her dear brother had aligned himself with the free folk, but to have one man their castle. He must have proven great loyalty and honour and bravery, the three things Jon admired before all else.

“Aren’t you going to ask me my name then?” Arya asked, treading lightly.

“No need lass. I think all of the North knows who you are by now Arya Stark.”

“Give me your name in return then.” At his raised brows, she shrugged. “It’s only fair.”

“Tormund Giantsbane, princess.” He was chuckling. “If you’re anything like your brother, I think we’ll get on just right.”

It didn’t take long for the guard to come back looking flustered and out of breath.

 _At least they know who I am now._ Arya thought to herself. _Even after everything that happened, she’s still a daughter of Winterfell. Still a Stark – still a wolf._

Still, she walked through the courtyard irritated that Jon seemed to insist she have a guard with her. He chose Tormund thank the Gods. They kept telling each other japes and it was getting bawdier and bawdier by the minute. She’d even see a maid or two blush and ran away when they saw her eyes on them.

By the time Arya saw Jon she was laughing so loudly, if Sansa was here she would have told them to mind their courtesies. She wouldn’t want anyone to hear how loud and crude her little sister was, and she could never imagine Sansa chuckling at vulgar stories.

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw Jon in the middle of the courtyard. He looked so much older, but still the same Jon – her Jon. The same man who loved her unconditionally, the man she’d loved the same in return.

They took a few tentative steps to each other until Arya broke out into a sprint. She flung herself in his arms and Jon lifted her up and twirled them around until they were both dizzy.

They were both laughing. Arya tucked her face into his neck to avoid anyone seeing her tears of joy and relief, Snowflakes were landing on them, turning them as white as ghosts but they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. It was like Arya was memorising him all over again.

Jon kissed her all over her face, just like she used to do for him. It warmed her heart.

It took a long time for them to let go of each other, but they did eventually. They could see men and women of Winterfell staring at them.

“You’ve been scarred.” Arya said as the noticed his burnt hand and the scars upon the face.

“When did you do this?” Jon asked, running his hand across her head, trying to change the subject.

“We can talk about all of that in the godswood.” Arya suggested mildly. There were so many servants listening in on their conversation. They were poor spies, but sneaky all the same and she wasn’t sure she wanted anyone to know the person she’d become.

Jon took her hand in his and Arya startled. Jon gave her a queer look before starting to let go, but she held his hand even more firmly.

 _I just need to get used to this._ Arya reminded herself. She had almost forgotten what affection was, she received it so rarely.

By the time they reached the godswood it was nigh the middle of the night. The godswood was the one thing that didn’t change; the scary heart tree, the darkness surrounding the place, the springs. It was all so familiar, but strange too. Arya felt as if she had not been in this place for decades.

“It’s so dark here,” she mumbled, “And so quiet.”

Jon sat on the grass and beckoned Arya to follow him. She settled next to Jon on the grass and sighed. “Jon I cannot explain everything to you.”

Jon frowned turned to face her. “Why? I thought you to be dead, I - What happened to you?”

“A lot of things dear brother, some terrible, some not,” Arya saw the way Jon had clenched his hand in the dirt. “And I wish to speak of none of it.”

“You must, I’ve been worried out of my mind wondering who may have hurt you or if you were or if - if you were dead.”

“Pray stop.” Arya knew the moment she’d seen Jon that this moment was coming. “You will get answers, simply not today.

Jon huffed angrily. He must have known there was no way he was getting anything from her when he saw the stubborn jut in her chin.

“Can I?” Arya said, pointing to his lap.

Jon nodded his assent and Arya put her head on his lap, they talked about everything and nothing as Arya drifted in and out of sleep.

She felt at peace. It had been a while since she’d known peace, and Jon was the one who gave it to her. She would always be eternally grateful to him for it.

 

 


	2. Knowledge

It had been so long since Arya had slept in a featherbed with thick furs to keep her warm that she thought she would fall into a slumber at its touch alone, but Arya couldn’t find rest. She shut her eyes and tossed and turned and nothing. Sleep would not come. It was as if she’d grown unused to sleeping on a bed so soft. She kicked her furs off and let out a groan.

Nymeria was out in the woods hunting with Ghost. It seemed as if their reunion was an easy one, unlike hers and Jon’s. She had not forseen this. Arya was happy to see him and happy to know that he was alive, but now, she felt the winter’s bitter cold.

 _Jon will want me,_ she kept telling herself, _even if no one else does_. She had kept that thought near to her heart throughout the years. But was it true? It was the first time she’d felt so lost around him and she silently cursed the Gods for keeping them apart for all these years.

They were both just so different from the children they used to be. Arya felt a sharp loss every time she looked at him. Jon seemed to feel the same. Arya saw something in his grey eyes that she had never seen there before, something that made her shiver. She wondered whether his story would be as hard to tell as her own.

She was scared to tell him everything. He loved her still, she could tell, even as she avoided him at every turn. But who could love a woman who killed in cold blood? Who could ever love her that much? She had been so sure that it was Jon, but every time she came close to telling him, she baulked at the thought.

Jon loved the wild, spirited, cheerful sister he left behind at Winterfell. Not the person she’d became.

Would that she had some rum to sip until the warmth slowed her thoughts and tired her. But she didn’t, and Arya was done with hoping for impossible things.

Jon had friends amongst the wildlings and the crannogmen now. Her taciturn brother never made friends easily, the way she did and yet they all seemed to like him and furthermore they respected him, not only as King in the North, but as a person too.

 _He has grown into his confidence over the years_ , she mused. _Much like I have_. He was lucky enough to have his companions here. She must admit that she missed some of the people she met while lost and travelling. Ned Dayne, and Gendry Waters, and Anguy, and Daena, and Brea and Talea. She wondered what they would make of her now. She’d escaped torment after torment and became so much stronger through it all.

And her list. She was not done yet, and what if Jon was less vengeful than she. She hadn’t been able to tell after the past few days since she returned. She would not sleep until everyone who hurt her family was gone from this wicked earth. It wasn’t a pretty dream, but it was a dream that sustained her through it all.

She wanted peace and it seemed like peace was something you could only achieve through violence. Jon was good with a sword, better than any of her other brothers. And she knew what to do with a sword, a dirk, a bow and arrow, poisons, darts. Maybe they’ll write a song about them. Wolf brother and sister seeking justice for their fallen kin.

 _Maybe_ _Jon was still awake too_ , she hoped and grabbed a robe to tie around her dressing gown.

She would tell him. She would tell her brother everything. And if he hated her in return, that would just be another thing she had to endure.

She snuck out of her chambers and found him in the lord's room. The bed seemed too big for him, so she climbed in. He was asleep. It seemed a fitful sleep.

Jon was never one for moving about in his sleep. He slept like the dead. So still and quiet that in the past she ofttimes would put a palm against his mouth to see if he was truly breathing. He growled and trashed around and – he looked exactly like she felt when she had her wolf dreams.

Ferocious, wild, and powerful.

She traced her fingers around the contours of his face as he moved about. His grey eyes were closed. But the lashes, thick and dark, were there. She felt it flutter before she moved to his nose, straight just like hers, his hair, it touched his shoulders now, a muddy brown. His cheeks, his jaw and the ridiculous beard that covered it, his lips, they were all the same as hers, but he looked so much older.

Jon was a man grown now, still her big brother, her favourite person, but different now too.

Her brother never ordered anyone the way she’d seen Jon do since her return. He was as graceful as ever and still slim, but there was something in his broad shoulders now, that spoke of untold powers.

She felt him wake before he opened his eyes.

“Are you done staring at me?” he asked, his voice slow and deep.

She flushed against her will. Of course it would be Jon who’d be able to break the mask of neutrality that she wore on her face as of late.

“No,” she replied softly, after she’d gotten herself under control once more. “I needed to remember that-”

“That I’m really here,” Jon finished the sentence for her, turning on his side to face her. “That this isn’t a dream.”

“Were this a dream it would be a wicked one,” she replied. “But I’d be happy for it all the same.”

Jon smiled at her, and she could still do that, she realised. Jon did not smile very often at anyone but he always smiled for her. It was good to know that much hasn’t changed.

“I have missed you so dearly,” Arya said after a moment of silence. “I thought of you so much that it hurt.”

“As did I,” he admitted. “There is much you need to know, but I don’t even know where I should begin.”

Arya took a deep breath and bolstered herself. “Let me go first then,” she suggested.

He gestured towards her and she started talking. She told him about Father’s execution and how she didn’t see it, but she heard the swing of the sword and the clunk of his head and Sansa, they made poor Sansa weep and scream. She told him about escaping King’s Landing with Yoren and some men for the Night’s Watch.

She bowed her head as she told him of her first battle, the lives she saved and the lives she stole, Harrenhal and the journey to that wretched place; when she was more mouse than wolf, and about weasel soup and Jaquen H’ghar. When she glanced up at him, he seemed horrified.

She rushed through her time with the Brotherhood and the Hound without even looking at him. His expression of horror, anguish and guilt might very well undo her and she didn’t want to talk about how abandoned she’d felt when Gendry chose the Brotherhood over her.

She didn’t dare look at him when she told him about the Red Wedding and how they mutilated Robb’s body and threw her mother’s dead body into the river, a mockery of her status as Hoster Tully’s eldest child.

When she got to Braavos her voice tapered off. How could she tell him about this? How could she tell her good and honourable brother that she had been an assassin? Everything else, as horrendous as it was to talk about, as horrendous as it was to experience, as horrendous as it was to relive, sounded like an adventure.

Being imprisoned, roaming the woods with a bunch of outlaws, then with a discarded knight. If Old Nan was still here. She’d make quite a story of it. Arya always wanted to go off on adventures, but that was when she young, and foolish, and did not understand. That sort of freedom came with a cost.

“What is it?” Jon asked, his voice hoarse, almost a whisper, as if he were expecting the worst.

 “Do you truly want to hear the rest?” she looked at him then. “It may change the way you think of me.”

“You’re safe, and alive, and home.” Jon said. “What you did to survive would not make me love you less. I don’t think there’s anything that could.”

“I was an assassin.” Arya said, as bluntly as she could. “I’m sure you heard of the guild I was a part of. The Faceless Men.”

“The Faceless Men,” Jon said, solemn as ever. “They can change their faces at will. You were –”

“I was like an evil witch in one of Old Nan’s stories,” Arya sighed. “I changed my face and killed without remorse, without even caring that someone might miss that person as terribly as I missed you. I’m not the hero in this story.”

“You’re just a child, how did –”

“I’m not a child Jon, not anymore.” Arya replied, sharply. “My girlhood died the day they took Father’s head.”

“Arya.” Jon whispered.

Arya smiled bitterly and ran her hands over her scalp. “I wasn’t Arya then. I was No One. And No One wasn’t allowed to think of things such as guilt and right or wrong. We served a different God. Him of Many Faces. And He thirsted for blood. So we spilt it. The gift of mercy. It was a kindness oftimes, the gift.” Arya had learned that last particular lesson from The Hound first, but Jon didn't need to know that.

Arya left out the second time she walked the grounds in the riverlands. She left out the gift of mercy that made her mother, cold and vengeful, close her eyes for good. She couldn’t tell him that on top of it all, she was a kinslayer too.

“Jon,” Arya continued. “You have to know, even if you’ve decided that this is too much to forgive, it was you that saved me.”

Jon looked at her and she made out a curious glint in his eyes, amidst the dismay. “How?”

“You saved me because I could never forget you, never stop loving you.” He made a noise and she looked at him as she continued. “I was supposed to rid myself of all of Arya Stark’s possessions because Arya Stark was supposed to exist no more but I kept thinking of home, of Winterfell, of all my family, and of you specifically. So I kept Needle, I hid her away, but she was still mine. She reminded me of you and your smile too much and I couldn’t just cast her away. I couldn’t be No One, not when I knew in my heart of hearts that I was Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark’s daughter, Jon Snow’s sister, I was Arya Stark and I couldn’t forget it.”

Jon’s face was stone and Arya shifted slightly. She could not read his emotions. She growled at herself internally. She had trained to do this. His hand betrayed what Jon’s face didn’t. He was clenching his fists into balls. He was angry but she could not tell who with.

“Are you vexed with me?” she asked, quietly.

“No. Not with you Arya. Don’t think that.” Jon wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. She inhaled deeply. He’d grown so strong. “I’m angry that you had to do this. I’m angry that I couldn’t have spared you from all of it.”

“I made my choices Jon, they were the only ones I could make at the time, but it was I who made them. The real question is, can you still love someone like me?” she asked.

She didn’t want to ask but she had to know. It’s a terrible thing, being unloved. She was treated kindly on few occasions while she was trying to get home, but it was always because they wanted something from her; her claim, to ransom her, and in Braavos her skill and service. It was always conditional. Even in Winterfell, her mother and septa despaired over her. Jon was always the person who loved her despite her many failings as a woman and as a person.

If that changed...

She put her face in the space between Jon’s neck and sternum and waited for his judgement.

“The war made monsters of us all.” Jon said after the silence went on for too long.

“Am I a monster then?” she said quietly.

“No more than I am,” Jon responded, equally quiet. “And I love you all the same. In fact I think I think I somehow love you even more.”

The room was dark and she could barely see his eyes, she only knew that they were trained on hers. His steady eye contact made her believe him as much as his eyes themselves did. Arya smiled.

“What of you then?” she asked. Her curiosity had been brewing since she got to the home that she always found in his arms. “I’ve heard some of what happened but not all.”

Jon fixed his stare on her and sighed. “It’s not pretty.”

She just shrugged. “Life rarely is.”

He gave her a look then, probably wondering where her sense of wonder and optimism had gone. It was lost to her now. She doubted that she could ever regain it.

“I notice you have some wildling friends.” Arya said, just to prod him in the right direction.

“Yes you’ve met Tormund. There’s also Val who’s still at Castle Black. And – and a woman, kissed by fire, she’s dead now but-”

“You broke your vows and bedded her,” she said calmly. She was sure he had his reasons. Mayhaps he loved this wildling girl. She didn’t know why the thought sent a pang of pain through her chest all the way down to her gut, but it did. “Is that why they killed you?”

Jon looked taken aback and for the first time for the night, she was amused.

“You learn a lot in the inns and tavern if you blend in enough. You were Lord Commander and then they, they killed you.”

“Her name was Ygritte.” Jon said, softly.

“Did you love her?” Arya asked.

“She reminded me of you.” Jon replied and the answer said it all. He looked at her for a moment and said, “It wasn’t because of Ygritte.”

Arya’s brow rose. She wasn’t sure what else could possibly cause her noble brother to be murdered by his own men.

“Ramsay Bolton,” Jon growled out his name. “had taken over Winterfell. He claimed that his new bride was Arya Stark. I wanted to save you. I tried, but between the way that I treated Stannis Baratheon and the wildlings, and Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall. They weren’t very happy with me.”

“That’s not a good enough reason to kill your commanding officer.” Arya’s chin jutted out, as stubborn as ever.

“Well you were indeed the final straw for them.” Jon said slowly. “I planned to ride to Winterfell to save you from that dreadful man, and they killed me for it.”

Arya hid her face in his neck once more. The thought of Jon, cold, alone, and not breathing sent shivers through her skin, and made tears gather in her eyes. Jon was all she had left and he could have been dead forever because of her. His guilt at not saving her made sense now, she felt the same now, guilt that her own brother had been killed in her name.

Arya listened to him carefully as he went on. Her eyebrows rose to the top of her hairline as he continued. He told her about his time with the wildlings, about men who left their sons to die and the wights who ate those babes and the Others. The Others were just a story. A story you told a child to scare them a little. They weren’t real. They couldn’t be.

“Jon,” she said softly even as she read the truth in his eyes. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

“You have to.” Jon said.

“The Others are –”

“They’re very real Arya and they’re coming, for us.”

“How do we fight them?” Arya wanted to know.

“With fire ... fire and dragonglass.”

They both lay there silently, thoughts adrift.

“The Arya Stark pretender,” Arya murmured after a moment.

“It was Jeyne Poole.” Jon said to her. “It was horrible what the Bolton Bastard did to her. I sent her to the Vale along with some trustworthy men. Sansa has already seen to getting her a position as her new handmaiden.”

“Sansa’s at the Vale?” Arya asked.

Jon nodded. “She’s not coming home for a while though. She wrote and told me that her place was there for the time being.”

“She belongs in Winterfell.” Arya snapped. “With her family.”

“The war will come soon Arya,” Jon said hotly. “And it’s better if those who cannot fight, stay away from the North.”

“Well then I suppose I’m staying then.”

Jon scoffed. “I have to find someone to foster you in the South. I want you here, at the entrance of death’s door, even less than I want Sansa here.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “I may not yet be a woman, fully grown, but I can fight. And I will fight this war.”

“Have you forgotten that I’m your king?” he asked.

“Have you forgotten that I couldn’t care less about titles?” she replied.

Jon huffed an angry breath and just because Arya wanted to be combative, she mimicked him.

“You’ve always been too stubborn for your own good.” Jon said ruefully.

“I thought you loved that about me?” Arya asked.

“I did. I do. But not at the price of your neck.” Jon pulled her closer and put his face in the cradle of her neck.

“I will be fine Jon. After everything I’ve told you, you must know I’m capable.” Arya reasoned.

“But luck is not always on our side.”

“We don't need luck, we need skill. I still remember my first lesson on sword fighting.”

“Stick ‘em with the pointy end.” Arya and Jon said together.

Jon’s nose was cold as he pressed it against her skin. “We can discuss this on the morrow. I’m tired and I’m sure you are too.”

Arya turned around, her back against Jon’s chest as he threw his arm around her.

“Arya I have something else to tell you,” he whispered in her ear. “About my parents.”

Wylla. She'd almost forgotten about that. 

“Another day,” Arya replied. “I think we’ve both learned enough from this talk alone.”

Jon fell silent and so did she. She pulled his arm tighter around her body and her eyes closed.

Arya Stark had forgotten so much, but not this – never this. Never how safe it felt in Jon’s arms. She wished it could be like this forever, but danger lurked at her every step. Coming home, to safety was her wish, and she had yet to get it.

Another battle.

Another war.

Would it ever end?

 _It will end_ , she told herself, _you will make sure that it does_.

She had spent so much time being beaten and broken. She was so powerless once. She’d gained control of herself with the help of the kindly man and she did not make it all the way home to let someone else take over her castle.

She was certain that these creatures, dead and still breathing, would be defeated. And she would be there when it happened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay well, I'm rereading the novels but I haven't reached ADWD yet. Arya's voice is so hard to get, I hope I did an okay job of it, but this conversation needed to happen.
> 
> The next chapter will be shorter. Just a filler chapter before I get back to the good stuff.


	3. War

Arya Stark stood in her tent with Jon, Bran, Tyrion Lannister and Queen Daenerys. They looked an odd group, Arya was sure of it, but only they could end this long night according to the red witch. Tyrion, Daenerys, Jon and Bran would be airborne; three of them on the backs of dragons, and one in the body of a raven whilst Arya would fight on the ground. _It’s there in the fires_ , the red woman said.

Arya would have spat on Lady Melisandre’s fire prophecies if not for her foreseeing Bran and Rickon’s return. Her sweet little brothers. It may be that the red witch saw things which were true but there was also falseness on her tongue and she unnerved Arya.

Jon seemed to reluctantly let her stay around. She brought him into a second life when he was dead in the snow and Jon wasn’t one to be ungrateful.

Meera Reed walked into Arya’s tent and bowed before the queen and king as her eyes remained on Bran.

“We must prepare,” she said and Bran nodded solemnly.

Meera would keep Bran somewhere safe as he skinchanged into a raven and helped them from above. Neither Arya nor Jon felt secure enough in their own abilities to risk it, so it had to be her little brother. She kissed him on the forehead and Jon took Bran’s hand in his and held on tight before Meera helped take Bran away.

As they left, Tyrion hobbled away too with a quick bow but not before flashing his queen a sharp look.

Daenerys’s eyes were on her and Arya had too much control to shift uncomfortably but even Jon, who got along well with the dragon queen, seemed bemused.

Daenerys Targaryen was unlike any other woman Arya had ever seen. She had hair like the moon’s glow, sun kissed skin and eyes like amethyst. She was beautiful, there was no doubt and regal too but as fierce and bold as a dragon; she walked with a sense of power that was more than her small stature.

But as much as the dragon queen impressed her, when she saw her and Jon together, Arya felt the bitter sting of jealousy. She knew enough about politics to know what a good alliance Daenerys and Jon would make.

 _Jon might marry her_ , she thought. _And leave me all alone again_.

“An entire kingdom at war because of my brother’s folly and a wolf girl with a pretty face,” Daenerys mused. “Lord Connington and Lord Reed said you both resemble the lady Lyanna greatly, in looks and in action. After spending time with the both of you, I think I understand my brother’s plight.”

“My mother wasn’t just a pretty face,” Jon said, “She had the wildness of the North in her.”

“I do not deny it, nephew,” Daenerys said slowly. “I was making an observation.”

“To what point, Your Grace?” Arya asked. Arya could almost see the wheels turning in the queen’s head. The dragon queen was planning something with both of them. Arya could see it in her eyes.

“I will speak to you both of my plans after we win this battle,” said Daenerys before nodding at Jon. “Lady Arya. Nephew.” 

The news that Jon Snow was never her real brother took Arya by surprise. Her father – he was so honourable. But he had said it himself once, hadn’t he? When she was younger. There can be honour in a lie and whatever Jon was to Arya – cousin, brother, best friend, she loved him fiercely.

She understood why her father lied, and raised Jon as his own, but that didn’t stop it from hurting. Jon would never be able to call her little sister again. The only thing that made it easier for Arya to swallow was that made him kin to the Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, and they needed her help to be ready for this war.

Sansa staying in the Vale, was something that made little sense when Arya first heard it, but Sansa was able to send hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of Knights of the Vale to Castle Black to help their cause which gave their side the advantage; even more so when the Imp and Jon assured the dragon queen of the necessity of this fight. Banners of red, yellow and grey, Lannister, Tyrell, Martell, Tully, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, and more, they all gathered their banners for this fight after Sansa sent the men from the Vale. There were dragons provided by the dragon queen, three of them, roaring into the night and setting ablaze whatever they could.

However she did it, Sansa made this threat seem real to the more resistant houses, and Arya felt so grateful. 

She would forgive her sister everything and hug her tight when this was over. But it wasn’t over yet.

“We can win this.” Arya said, resolutely, turning to face Jon as soon as the queen left. "We're ready."

Jon looked resolved, “As ready as we can be.”

Jon kissed the top of her head and looked down at her. Worry was emanating from every pore in his body.

Since she returned from Braavos, Jon fretted over her, and even though she was adverse to such nonsense, she excused it from him.

She excused it right up to two moons turns when she told him she would be joining the fight against the Others and he refused to even consider it. Then, he had been unbelievably firm. She’d forgotten for a moment that he wasn’t just her cousin, he was her King and commands fell easily from his lips.

But this was an area where Arya would not – refused to bend. She could see she was wearing him down, Rickon and Bran were on her side with this one. They had seen her fight in the courtyard. The clanging of steel. She wasn’t invincible or unstoppable, but she was fierce and unyielding. She would bend for no one.

Even Tormund told him he was being stupid. He said. “Your little cousin nearly floored me with that new sword of hers, gods only know we could use some more brave lasses like this one.”

Arya beamed at him at the time, but Jon still shook his head.

It took Tormund and Bran and Rickon and herself pestering Jon to let him bend and say she could fight, only if she fought in the periphery. She had no intention of doing that, but she smiled when he made the suggestion.

“Anything you say, Jon.”

Jon kissed her forehead again and it was quite obvious that he didn’t want to leave her. She smothered the smile that was fighting to appear on her face.

“Be safe, little sis- cousin. Little cousin.” he said, cupping her face with his hand.

She held on to his forearm and kissed it to try to soothe him. It wasn’t long before he was called away by his men, but his words echoed before her as he disappeared into the throng.

That is what Arya had always wanted for so long. To be home, to be safe.

It seemed that the Gods would grant her the first but not the second. The Gods can be cruel in that way. Not Him of Many Faces or the Red God, or the Seven, though they were cruel in their own rights, but the old gods, the gods of her father.

One moment she’s reunited with her the man she once called brother; the man she loved more than most everything, then she found out that her two little brothers who she loved and grieved were not, in fact, dead as reported and then she had a tearful reunion with them both. Three moons later, she was covered in snow and dirt and blood with the beautiful sword of Valyrian steel Bran had gifted her with and the bodies, living and dead, before her.

The Others were…nothing like she ever picture in her head. They were more beautiful than she ever could have imagined, but terrifying too. She used her new sword, Dark Sister, to forge through the wights and they dropped flies. The free folk, more used to this than she, burned every single body that fell to the floor.

Her wolves were fighting as fiercely as man. They were bolder than other creatures of their kind. They listened to her when she commanded and they tore into the wights, feasting on their icy flesh. It was the Others that were different. Nymeria tried to eat one but she ended up spitting it out; their flesh must taste of ice – ice and black rot. Arya sliced into the creature with her sword.

Arya closed her eyes for a brief moment and she growled as she felt the ferocity of her direwolf thrumming within her veins.

But as the long night continued and the dead kept rising, things were quickly becoming out of hand and Arya could barely keep her eye on Jon, or on Bran flying above in the body of a raven, or on Ser Davos and the four dozen Skagosi men Rickon brought with him.

She kept slicing through these creatures made of ice and it wasn’t enough. Fire raged all around her - Fire. Ice. Dragons. Blood. And it still wasn’t enough.

Arya got sliced into her chest by way of a sword wielded by a woman with wine red hair and the sword burst into light before her, but she kept fighting, weak and injured – she fought. She couldn’t afford to slow down or she may die in truth and become one of those things – the wights, cursed by the Gods.

Dragonfire alit the sky.

Arya took a second to look at the ground and she was startled. She was standing in a pool of blood. The man who lost this much blood had to be dead by now. She felt a moment’s pity but she didn’t let it last too long; she and the rest would grieve their losses when the battle was over.

She took a step and the harsh pain coiling in her chest made her fall to the ground. The beating of kettledrums, the growling of wolves, the screeching of dragons, and the shouts and screams of men rang through the air and all she could smell was blood. Blood and fire.

 _It’s my blood_ , she realised in a detatched way. She was there, but she was floating too.

Dirt. Snow. Blood.

It was all hers.

She heard a howl in the dark that she felt deep in her bones and she had the acute memory of Jon kissing her on her forehead before the battle began and begging her to stay safe.

 _I have failed you_ , she thought before closing her eyes.

She floated in and out of consciousness, and she could only see two other men in a small room with her, bloody and groaning.

She felt nothing but pure agony.

There were yells and screams, and she thought she heard a sob before she slipped back into the darkness.

She woke again and she cried out every time she was jostled. It was Maester Samwell who was taking care of her but the once mostly empty room was crowded with the injured, weak and in pain like she and her wolves were howling. She heard Nymeria the clearest, her howl ran through Arya’s body giving her a surge of something she couldn’t name – but it felt a lot like power.

Nymeria had survived the battle. And so had the people in this room. They were patching up the injured and covering up the dead. That could only mean one thing.

They were victorious.

Through the pain, a smile touched her lips as Maester Sam poured milk of the poppy down her throat and she went adrift once more.

When she awoke she was in a different room and a worried set of blue eyes were upon her. She shifted and bit down a whimper. She hurt all over.

“Arya,” he said, softly.

Alarm bells set off in her head. Her little brother, so much like herself at that age, was wild, uncontrollable, and boisterous.

“Rickon, what are you doing here, little brother?”

Her wild, wolf-blooded brother seemed almost docile as he stared at her with wide eyes.

“They said – they thought you were dead.” Rickon still looked at her as though she was a ghost.

“They’ve said that before,” Arya whispered her reply. “And here I am.”

Rickon didn’t look settled by her response. She tried to sit up but she collapsed from the effort. Rickon looked, if anything, more worried for her.

“Jon killed her.” Rickon said hurriedly. “The crazy red witch. When he heard what she did to you, he took the flaming sword and ran it through her heart. She died on the spot.”

It was Melisandre who hurt her. Arya scowled. She was glad that the old witch was dead now. She only wished that she was the one to do it. Arya hated Lady Melisandre and her cryptic words and the way she used to stare at her and Jon and even Bran like she knew something they didn’t.

But a sword through the heart.

That’s what killed the red woman. It’s how Arya’s ended many a lives. It should have killed Arya too, but somehow she lived. Someone would have to explain to her how it was even possible that she lived.

Her eyes closed for a moment and when she opened them again, the room was brighter and her little brother was gone.

The sky was alight with gold and red; the long night was truly done.

She tried to sit up again without crying out in pain. A few moans fell out of her mouth but more or less, she was successful.

The door to the room burst open and Jon and Bran were there in the doorway, looking at her wide eyed. They probably heard her. She could see the concern in their eyes.

“Stop looking so worried, it’s just a scratch,” she tried to joke. Arya knew it fell flat but it felt strange being the centre of attention. She had long known that while she could pretend in the light of day, she fit best in the shadows.

Arya realised that she must have looked worse than she felt when Jon, carrying Bran in his arms, walked towards her bed so slowly, cautious, as if even his footsteps might break her.

She let out a sound of annoyance. She hated being treated like a delicate thing.

“What happened after I fell?” she asked, stubbornly ignoring their concerned looks.

“Nymeria, Summer and Ghost managed to carry you to safety in the castle.” Bran volunteered after a few moments of silence. 

Jon didn’t say a word but Arya could see his guilt and his anger and she could see the tension in his shoulders. He just looked at her with those dark eyes that made her shiver which unfortunately, also made her wince.

“But we won?” Arya urged them on.

“Aye,” Jon said, finally. “We won.”

“Then why are you both so sour?” Arya asked, frustrated.

“We almost lost you,” Jon growled, darkness in his voice. He looked like he wanted to throw something. Even Bran, who seemed just as worried for her, looked taken aback by Jon’s reaction.

Despite his temper, Jon placed Bran carefully on a chair next to her bed.

Jon came nearer and took one of her hands in his, “I will never let anything like this happen to you, ever again.”

“I’m here,” Arya fought the pain and reached out to touch his bearded chin. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here. With you.”

Arya knew that her little brother was still in the room but somehow this was a moment that was hers and Jon’s alone.

Bran cleared his throat and when they both turned to look at him, he had a queer light in his eyes and he didn’t seem to be all there. It took Jon touching his shoulder to jolt him out of wherever he went.

“The queen said she wishes to speak with you both when Arya feels well again.” Bran said, tilting his head to and staring at them both, as if waiting for their answer.

Jon’s attention turned back to Arya the moment Bran started talking. When Arya looked in his eyes she saw how seriously he was taking that vow he just made to her.

“Daenerys can wait.” Jon replied his eyes focused on Arya.

 “They’ll write songs about what we managed to do you know,” Bran said. “And what we will bring in the future.”

“What will we bring?” Arya asked, her eyes still trained on Jon.

“Peace,” Bran responded. “The seven kingdoms will be at peace, and working together with Lord Tyrion and Queen Daenerys, we will achieve greatness. I’ve seen it.”

Jon smiled at that and Arya felt him relax as she stroked his cheek.

Peace. That was a lovely thought. And Arya trusted Bran’s greenseeing more than she ever did the red witch’s fires. Safety wasn’t just a dream for her anymore. She finally had it. And with her brothers and cousin on her side, greatness shouldn’t be too far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really needed to get this chapter and the next one, out of the way. After the next chapter there will be a five year time jump.
> 
> I think this will be my last update for the year. So see you guys next year. xx


	4. Proposal

Maester Samwell came bursting into her room, breathing heavily, his chains clinking together. 

Both Arya and Jon turned towards him in question and he bowed as much as his girth allowed before looking at Jon, reproachfully. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but you must come at once,” Samwell said with fear in his eyes. “Some of the wildlings are brawling with the sellswords in the yard. They’ve been drinking I think and you’ve been here all night.” 

Jon sighed and glanced at Arya. She could read very little on his frozen face, but there was something apologetic in his eyes before he nodded and took his leave with Ghost at his heels.

It was the third night in a row that Jon had stayed by Arya’s side through the night. Bran would oft visit and so would Rickon, but it was always Jon who stayed the longest, keeping a silent vigil. It was as though he believed that danger would befall her if, for one moment, he wasn’t at her side. 

Part of her wanted to remind him that she wasn’t a child in need of a breast to suckle on, and that he was still king and he had duties that didn’t involve spending most of his time by his cousin’s sickbed; a much more persistent part of her just wanted to enjoy his silent company before he got dragged away for the inevitable council meetings. 

He had to attend a lot of meetings recently. 

The Stark bannermen were infuriated that Jon hadn’t abdicated his kingship in favour of one of his younger cousins yet, especially after it was revealed that he was more dragon than wolf. 

They didn’t understand that it was more complicated than not. 

Ravens had flown back and forth from Winterfell to the Vale while Arya was still unconscious in her sickbed and a plan was formed. Or so Arya had been told. She had no involvement in the decision and the knowledge of that chafed. It wounded her even more that it was her youngest brother who came to her with information and not the elder ones. She may not have been as politically minded as her other siblings, but she was no fool. 

Bran was the first one to sense her displeasure. He apologised to her and answered her questions but that wasn’t enough to cool her rage. Bran must have told Jon of it because when he came to her that night he looked chagrined. Even then she had to press him to hear what had passed. Some part of him still saw her as a child, she knew. It was like his eyes refused to see her as she was now. 

Between Rickon, Bran, and Jon a light was shined on what was agreed upon whilst her eyes were closed.

Bran wrote to Sansa and Jon met with the queen's councillors and Rickon told her that after talking to Wyman Manderly and Howland Reed, their most trusted members of the council, they agreed that bending the knee to the Targaryen Queen on the promise that the North would still be independent from the Iron Throne was the wisest choice. 

Daenerys Targaryen was taking her kingdom with fire and blood and the North had bled enough. Yet they still had to decide on who would be ruling prince ... or princess.

They couldn’t give rule to Sansa, she was still married to Lord Tyrion and despite his help during the war against the Others, no one wanted a Lannister ruling the North. Marriages could be broken of course and Arya dearly hoped that her sister's would be soon but Arya feared that the name Lannister would always be attached to Sansa. Bran, Rickon or Arya would be the decision they had to make and there would be backlash for either choice. Bran was a cripple, Rickon was raised by savages and Arya was a woman. It did not help that since the war, there were whispers echoing through Winterfell and the rest of the North, passing from lip to lip, that the Starks were beastlings – wargs. 

No one would be wholly happy when they made a choice. Northern politics were nothing like it was in the south with the mummers games they played but their bannermen needed to see that every option was considered before a choice was made. They had to wait for Sansa. 

Another ordeal for Arya to endure. 

Too many emotions ran through her at the thought of Sansa. The loudest was not even a feeling: it was a memory. A memory of Sansa on her knees screaming and weeping, a memory of a crowd jeering and laughing, a memory of her father leaving her forever. 

It took two turns for Sansa to reach Winterfell. 

In that time, thanks to Maester Samwell’s diligence, Arya was hale and growing stronger each day. She could stand and walk and if she did not exert herself she could even hold her sword in her hand, properly balanced, without any pain and Arya still did not greet her sister at the gates like was proper. She feigned fatigue, not knowing what to do.

She felt like a weak, stupid little girl but she couldn’t face Sansa in front of everyone. She didn’t know if she’d laugh, or if she’d cry, or if she’d scream, or worse, if she’d do nothing at all.

It was only fitting that the place she reunited with the sister she had not seen in years was in the crypts where their father went to rest.

Sansa had sent a serving girl named Lyn to fetch her two days after arriving at Winterfell. Arya followed the dark-haired serving girl to the crypts clad only in her grey dressing gown. She didn’t have the time to find a robe so the eyes of the men in the yard crawled all over her as she hurried across the bridge. Lyn didn’t want to follow her down the steps so Arya went down on her own. 

Being in this place made gooseprickles rise all over her skin, but she was a Stark; she couldn’t find it in herself to be as afraid of the crypts as she was when she was very little. She had visited the crypts a few times herself since she returned to Winterfell to visit Father and bring him flowers. She glanced at the stone statues of the Lords and Kings of Winterfell with swords in their hands. Bran could name almost all of them at only a glance, many as they were.

Arya saw a soft light the further down she walked. When she neared her father’s statue she could see why. A candle made of dragonglass was lit on the floor, a queer light shining from it. It cast a ghostly glow on Father’s statue. 

It also cast in Sansa an unearthly sort of light. It made the auburn of her hair look deeper, it made her eyes look bluer and her features looked softer. Arya didn’t want to know what the light of obsidian did to her own face. 

It had been years since she’d last seen her sister and Sansa had grown so much more beautiful than she was as a child. She was slender still but shapely and high breasted. She was a woman now. She looked much like their mother, but lovelier if that were even possible. Beautiful. She looked nothing like Arya did with her short, rat brown hair that only just touched her shoulders and her long, solemn face and her child's body. Arya put the thought from her mind. Feeling inadequate next to Sansa was unwelcome after all this time but it nothing new to her.

“Jon had a stonemason he trusted make Robb and Father’s statues.”

The mason, Bryar, had known them both well, Jon had told her. His wife was a baker and Father, him and Robb oftimes used to stop by her shop when they rode past the market square. Bryar captured both Father and Robb well as far as Arya could tell.

“He looks so different.” Sansa said, her eyes trained on their lord father. Arya wondered if she and Sansa were seeing things differently. It may have been because Father’s face was so still. He wore his lord's face even in death. “The last time I saw him –” Sansa’s voice grew thick. 

“We don’t need to speak of that.” Arya said. She swore inwardly as her own voice trembled; grief making her as weak as she once was when she had since grown so strong. “Being there was bad enough.”

Sansa looked at her, startled. “You were – where – I didn’t...” 

“In the crowd.” Arya said. She remembered Sansa standing with the queen with a hopeful look on her face as they dragged Eddard Stark out, bound and bedraggled like a common thief, but her father all the same. She had hoped for a brief moment that the old gods would save him but her hopes were dashed as her prayers fell on deaf ears. A girl as green as grass she was back then.

Sansa didn’t seem to know what to say to that. She looked at Arya for a moment before turning back to Father. 

“The crowd.” Arya heard the anger in her sister's voice. “I never thought I could hate so many people all at once.”

“It’s oh so easy to hate when there are people who are deserving of hatred,” Arya said. “I’ve let hatred consume me more than I should.”

“So I’ve heard,” Sansa said, reproach entering her voice. “I heard you fought in the war and you were wounded.”

“I did and I was.”

“Queen Daenerys told me of some witch's prophecies of your necessity in that fight, as did Bran and my lord husband.”

Arya huffed. Some things never change. She knew where this was headed.

Sansa looked at her once more. “But you are still a lady and you have to remember that –”

“I’m not a lady Sansa,” she said shortly. “I doubt I ever was.”

“I do not mean to pick a quarrel with you. You’re my sister and that means something more to me now than it ever had before. But you must know that your place isn’t supposed to be on a battlefield.”

“My place,” Arya said softly. She’d spent so long thinking she didn’t have a place. “I don’t want to have this conversation Sansa.”

Arya crossed her arms and Sansa gave her an impatient look but she didn’t press the point. The blue silk of her sister’s dress sleeve brushed against her bare arm.

“What happened to Littlefinger?” Arya asked trying to steer their conversation into smoother waters. “He was not with the rest of your retinue. I heard he was keeping you safe.”

“He fell out of the moon door shortly before I left.” Sansa replied with little emotion in her voice. “It was unfortunate.”

Arya needed nothing but her eyes to tell her that Lord Baelish had help falling out of that moon door. Mayhaps there weren’t many smooth waters left for them to sail on.

“My lord husband has told me that you’ve been avoiding the queen. Jon bent the knee to her, as did Bran, as did I. Even Rickon. You remain the only Stark who hasn’t.” Sansa said thus proving Arya's point. “It is beginning to make her wroth. She will take it as an insult.” 

Arya almost snapped out a response but – “Why do you keep calling Lord Tyrion your husband. He’s a Lannister.”

“A Lannister that I joined my life to before the eyes of men and gods.” Sansa reminded her. 

“Marriages can be broken.” Arya insisted. “If you ask Jon or the dragon queen they could –”

“I am a princess of the North and as Lord Tyrion's wife, I am also Lady of Casterly Rock and the wife of the Queen's Hand.” A small smile played upon Sansa’s lips. “There will be few women in all of Westeros more powerful than I.”

“And that is what you want?” Arya couldn’t be more confused if she tried to be. “Power?” 

The Sansa she knew only ever wanted her life to be as pretty and sweet as a song. She wanted a husband that was as gallant and as brave as he was beautiful. While no one could deny the Imp's bravery, he had little else that Sansa once prayed for. 

“Yes power, and family too,” she answered before her tone became exasperated once more. “Don’t you want that?”

She did. She truly did. Power wasn’t something Arya ever wanted until the moment she lost it.

She and Sansa had always been dissimilar as far as sisters went but she never thought that she would be so sad to find that they shared this desire. As Arya looked upon her sister’s fair face she started to wonder what else the years had stolen from them other than their innocence and their silly dreams. 

“You do know that if I talk to the queen I will fight in her war with a sword in my hand,” she warned. 

Auburn hair brushed against her cheek and soft hands tightened around her shoulders as Sansa drew her in a perfumed embrace.

“Arya you must not think that I judge you. It is for the Father to judge you, not I. I just don’t – I can’t understand how you can choose to make your life harder than it needs to be. We will soon be at peace. Don’t you want peace?”

Arya did want peace, she could admit that, but she didn’t know what she would do with once it came. For so long, fighting was all she knew. 

“Talk to Queen Daenerys, sister and do it soon, before she gets any angrier.”

She knew that Sansa was right, even so, Arya was avoiding the dragon queen. She knew that she and her family had a debt to pay. The War for Dawn was important for the queen, it proved that she wanted peace in the Seven Kingdoms, but her dragons did not come for free. She had her Unsullied, and the Martells of Sunspear and the lords of the riverlands, and the Greyjoys of Pyke, and the Tyrells of Highgarden, and the Lord of the Vale had called all their banners, pledging themselves to her cause, moons before the dragon queen even landed in Westeros, but they had not all fully recovered from the war; to send them into another one so soon, she would need the armies of the North to go claim her throne. 

Arya knew it and she was sure everyone else did too. Jon was willing to do whatever he could to help her, Bran and Arya too.

Arya thought of what Sansa had said but it didn’t make her feel any better. She had spent so much time being powerless that true power was tempting.

For Arya, the problem didn’t lie in helping Daenerys. Arya would give anything to see Cersei Lannister dead and bleeding. She had not forgotten her hatred for the terrible queen. 

It would be better for the realm in Daenerys took rule. 

Westeros had endured a mad king in Aerys, a drunken lech in Robert, a mad king in Joffery and an even madder queen in Cersei. The common folk needed a good, strong leader who cared about their struggles and the realm needed peace. 

Yet the thought of travelling South once more...

Every time Arya thought about it, she felt an unwelcome jolt of fear. She was a Stark of Winterfell. There was nothing good for any Stark in the South; only death and only misery. 

Her grandfather, aunt, and uncle and her father, brother, and mother all learnt that lesson too late for they learned it with their lives. How could she let her family suffer that lesson thrice over? 

She left her rooms early the next morn with her direwolf at her side to go to the godswood. She hastily dressed in a shapeless woollen, brown dress she had brought from Braavos. She would be inconspicuous today. She needed to spend some time with the old gods. Him of Many Faces was still there in her mind when she woke and that would not serve today. She wanted to wash him clean off her with the black waters of the springs.

What she did not expect was to see the silver queen herself, Daenerys Targaryen, sitting under the heart tree waiting for her. She wore a red gown made of silk with black lace sleeves and a black chain with a jewelled three headed dragon at its center. Her hair, though as short as Arya's, was intricately coifed. She stood when she saw Arya approach. 

Arya was a little peeved to know that her time with the gods would be put off but she knew this would be coming. Sansa had warned her and she could not avoid this forever. 

Nymeria stared at Daenerys with her golden eyes but the queen looked unafraid. When Daenerys realised that Arya wasn’t going to start talking first, she started.

“I’ve never seen a godswood before. The way my brother talked it sounded like a light, airy place with trees and perfumed flowers.”

Daenerys turned to the scary heart tree. So that’s how she wanted to start this conversation, Arya thought. I can play along then. Arya turned to the tree. It always gave her strength to stand in a godswood. 

“That’s what they’re like in the south, I suppose.” Arya said easily, “It’s different in the north. A godswood is where you worship in the north.”

“So you follow the old gods?” There was a curious glint in her eyes. 

I do sometimes. “They’re the only ones who’ve ever heard me, who’ve ever given me anything; swords, wolves, my name even.” Arya admitted.

“The Targaryens have worshipped the Seven since the Doom of Valyria,” Daenerys offered. “A magister I once knew told me that the gods promise us nothing so they rarely prove false. Men, he said, are different.”

“Sometimes it is in a man’s best interest to be false.”

“I am sure you believe that.”

It was a cheap barb but Arya responded anyway, “Whatever do you mean, Your Grace?” she asked innocently.

“I think you know Arya Stark.”  Daenerys folded her arms. “Jon is kin to me and he has claimed that you can be trusted but if you mean to renege on your promised fealty then I would have to count you amongst my enemies.” Daenerys said, looking at her with hard eyes. “You’ve seen my dragons my lady, I’m sure you know how I deal with my enemies.”

Arya kept her face blank, as calm as still waters, but her insides burned. She responded as well to threats as she did to orders. And for her honour to be called into question ... by a Targaryen too.

Nymeria bared her teeth and let out a low growl – a warning. Daenerys glanced at the wolf warily, but to her credit she did not back away or even take a step back.

Arya still fumed. True her sense of honour had taken its trips and falls over the years but she was still, at heart, the daughter of a Stark and a Tully.

“I do not go back on my word nor do I make payment with false coin. My family promised to help you and we will. We are Starks, Your Grace. Our promises are never emptily given.”

“Starks bent the knee to the Iron Throne once, only to become traitors later and start a rebellion with the aid of a usurper.” 

Nymeria growled in response to her tumultuous emotions. Arya sank her fingers into the fur behind her wolf’s ear. If Nymeria was going to react to every emotion that Arya wouldn’t let show she would have to try to calm her beforehand. 

“House Targaryen and House Stark were enemies then, and for good reason,” Arya reminded the silver haired woman. “Both our houses suffered many losses because of it.”

A frown played upon her delicate features, “Some of us lost more than others.”

“Death came for both our families.” Arya said, stubborn as ever. “They were losses all the same.”

“Yet no one in your family died from betrayal.” Daenerys stated.

It took everything in Arya not to laugh hysterically. “We have supped on that meat I promise you.”

Something flashed on Daenerys's face too quick for Arya to read it.

“I do not mean to stand here all day and argue about this,” frustration was now evident in Daenerys's voice. “Death was not the topic I –”

“I believe it was.” Arya interrupted. Perhaps it was not wise to test Daenerys thus, but she would have to do it sometime. “When we march into war with you, men will fall. When you take your place on the throne, men will fall. When we are at peace, men will fall. All men die, Your Grace.”

“Valar Morghulis,” Daenerys said, softly enough that Arya wondered whether or not she was supposed to hear.

“Valar Dohaeris,” she responded instinctively.

“It would serve you well to befriend me Arya Stark or to at least consider me an ally,” Daenerys said, gaining strength in her voice once more. “For there is more we must discuss.”

“I thought we had said everything we needed to,” Arya responded sweetly. “But I am often wrong about these things.” 

This game that was played with wit and words was one she had played many a time across the Narrow Sea. She played it as well as she could but it suited her as well as a badly fitted gown.

“I have spoken to my councillors and we agreed that an alliance between your house and mine must be forged.”

“We are allies already, Your Grace.” Arya replied but she could feel the conversation heading in a direction she did not like one bit. “I can promise that.”

“Words are wind,” Daenerys said, a smile forming on her lips. “But an alliance solidified not just by words, but through marriage? I propose a betrothal.” 

“A betrothal between who?” she asked, dread coiling in her belly.

“Why a betrothal between you my lady,” the queen smiled wider. “Between you and the man you once called brother.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise Dany's proposal is going to make sense. I had to split this chapter in half so things will be explained when I get the other half out.
> 
> I'm so so sorry for the long wait. Long story short: the laptop I was using to write this (which wasn't even my own, which is another story) broke down on me. So I lost my entire fic outline which bummed me out. I'm the "plan every chapter" kind of writer. Since I don't have a PC right now, I had to write this chapter on my phone and I'll write the other two on my phone. I remember everything I planned pre time jump so I'll be able to write that. But post time jump might take me a while. Sorry about that.


	5. Decision

Arya left the godswood in a daze. Daenerys Targaryen, soon to be her good-aunt if things went her way, had told her of her plans in great detail and Arya hated most all of it.

She hated the thought of Jon being called Targaryen. She hated the thought of leaving Winterfell. She hated the thought of living in King’s Landing. She hated the thought of managing Dragonstone. She hated all of it. 

Nymeria nudged at her hand with her large snout when they both heard the howling of wolves. It was a weaker sound than anything Nymeria or Summer or Shaggydog would make. Her little wolf cousins.

“Go on then.” Arya teased pinching her direwolf's ear. “Your children are calling.”

Nymeria snorted before loping off into the trees.

Arya looked at the sun overhead. Spring brought forth something in the north that Arya had never before seen. The skies were clear and flowers bloomed from the brown earth, even the rains were light. It was still nothing like the thick, warm, boggy humidity of Braavos or the riverlands and the crownlands with its airy warmth. She’d even heard some Dornishmen mutter about the cold, but it was nothing like it was before the Wall fell. 

She just wished the weather would reflect her mood. She wanted cold winds and cloudy skies, she wanted loud thunders and a thick fog, it would better show her doubts and hesitance.

Jon's aunt had gone to talk to him after leaving the godswood and it made worms crawl in her belly. The silver queen told Arya that she was the first besides her councillors to hear of her plans. As if it were a favour. 

Despite her wildness as a child Arya had always known she’d be wed one day. She never spent much time fantasising on what her husband would be like but she had hoped that he would be honourable, and brave, with a sense of adventure. Jon was all of those things but he was her brother too. 

No. He wasn’t her brother. He never was. He wasn’t the same Jon either. He had died and been reborn. He had lived and breathed in the heart of a wolf – that left something in his blood that was wilder and darker than her solemn brother had ever been. There was a dullness to him too, a dullness that spoke of exhaustion.

She could see the dark circles under his eyes and his nigh sickly paleness, the sharp way in which he spoke and the coldness in his eyes. Those cold, grey eyes that warmed whenever he grinned at her or messed her short hair. Just the thought of that made her smile. As she thought of Jon like that she wondered whether she'd be able to kiss him, not the way that a sister would kiss a brother but the way a woman would kiss a man.

She could imagine the look on her lady mother’s face if she were to hear of this; not the cruel, grey-haired crone she’d become in the end, but the mother Arya knew. The mother who was loving and nurturing and stern and so reproachful of anything that wasn’t proper. Jon may not have ever been her true brother and he was gently born but he was a bastard still. Even legitimised and accepted by the queen, for some people, that stain would never be removed. Arya didn’t care about that, not truly, but her mother would have. 

She didn’t even know what her father would think. He had lied about so much. He knew the truth of Jon better than anyone else. What would he think of this? Would he approve?

They were both long gone and she could not ask them. Their ghosts could not tell her what to do. She would have to make this decision on her own. 

It frustrated her that she could not work out her doubts and anger in the training yard. There are other options, she supposed. She could still sit a horse and she rode as well as any man. She could ride out to the wolfswood if she wanted, but there were tents and tents and tents of knights and soldiers and there were far too many guards about and she was far too recognisable. There was a downside to being a young girl who fought in a war with a pack of wolves at her heels. It wasn’t a sight that was easily forgotten. And her family would want to know where she went and why.

She hadn’t had to answer for her every movement in a very long time, not since she’d fled Harrenhal. Neither the Brotherhood nor the Hound cared where she went so long as she did not stray too far and while she was certain that the kindly man had spies all about Braavos, as long as she did as she was told he never bothered where she went.

It was different in Winterfell and it was taking longer than she expected to get used to. It’s because they care for me, she kept telling herself. And she would not have them care for her any less but still – she was unused to this.

She spent so much time walking around that she found herself in the Library Tower. 

When she looked inside she thought that perhaps she did not come here on accident. 

Tyrion Lannister was sitting behind a desk with his head buried in a tome. 

Arya could not see the stunted legs that he waddled around on but she had full view of his face. It is an ugly thing, she thought dispassionately. There was a long scar on his face and a hideous gash where his nose once was. He looked more like a creature than a man. Sansa must have wept when they told her they were marrying her to him.

Arya walked into the room, nimble on her feet. The Imp did not even notice her until she stood in front of him, her shadow obscuring the words in front of him.

“Lady Stark,” he smiled up at her. “To what do I owe this particular pleasure.” 

Pleasantries. She’d had about enough of them for one day. Still, Arya bit her tongue, courtesies can be useful on occasion. 

Tyrion’s smile exaggerated his features and it should have made him look more grotesque but instead it made his eyes look kind and full of mirth. 

“I came to see if I could borrow a particular scroll but it seems as if you’ve replaced our septon.” Arya replied. “A welcome change. You’d be a far more entertaining than our last septon ever was.”

“Indeed,” her good-brother said, though his smile tightened and he stared at her with his mismatched eyes. “Would you have me dance, and fall and jape? It’s quite rare to see a lion be a fool.”

Arya could taste the bitterness in his words. 

“Forgive my jest, my lord. I prefer your wit to entertain,” Arya replied quickly. Men reacted terribly when they believed they were being made a mock of. The Imp was a little man but a man all the same. “Though of course I can’t say that I’ve ever seen you dance.”

“It’s a remarkable occasion that I dance at all but it’s not something one would forget.” 

Arya smiled sweetly. After Arya learned to control her face, the kindly man had bid the waif to show her how to express different emotions with only a smile – she knew how to look joyful, how to look sad, how to look kind, embarrassed, unsure, devious, simple, lusty. 

“Then I consider myself unlucky, indeed.”

“As you should.” Lord Tyrion replied, his throat bobbed stifling a laugh. “Now what scroll can I find you? Perhaps one on the history of Stark marriages?” 

Arya didn’t let it trouble her that he knew why she was there – why she was bothered. He would have to have been a fool not to have known and despite his earlier words, Arya had never accused Tyrion Lannister of being a fool. 

“You read me well, my lord.” Arya smiled again, abashed this time. “It is just – well, I am confused.”

“I imagine a lot would confuse you of our queen's offer.” Tyrion said wryly.

“Jon was my brother. ”Arya argued but she could hear the weakness in her words. And she knew what Tyrion would say before he even said it.

“Was? He never was your brother my lady.” Tyrion replied easily. “He was always your cousin even if you did not know it.”

Arya kept her face blank but she wanted to kick the Imp. 

“How did Queen Daenerys request this of you?” the Imp continued.

“She ordered,” Arya said, letting herself sound affronted and petulant. “She did not request.”

Tyrion nodded like he knew that she would say that. “She has a temper like fire, quick and unyielding. Sometimes she does not offer so much as she commands. It is however in a queen's nature to command her subjects, highborn and low. You are a leal ally of our queen are you not?”

“I do so swear.” Arya nodded to herself, “But I do need to understand her commands if I’m ever to be fine with following them.” 

“There’s not much to understand I’m afraid. The queen wants the Targaryen line to continue.” Tyrion's words did not ring true.

Did the queen not want to do it herself? A queen was a mother to her kingdom, noble and common born alike, and the silver queen had three winged children of her own. It could be that she wished to rest the burden of more children on someone else. Or perhaps she could not bear any true children at all. 

Arya knew better than to ask. Daenerys saw more of Arya than she should have in the godswood, she didn’t need to know that Arya was asking probing questions too.

“Why me?” Arya asked instead. 

“Why do you think our queen allows you to keep an ancestral sword of her House?” the Imp asked. 

Dark Sister.

“She wants me to pass it on to a future daughter.” Arya answered for him. “A Targaryen daughter.”

“Clever girl. That may be why Daenerys likes you.”

“Does she?” Arya was dubious.

“Of course,” The Imp said, gently. “You and our queen are much alike you know.”

“In what way?” Arya asked. 

“You’re both very clever in a way that is much older than your years. You oft see the opposite.” Tyrion mused, looking past her. “Mine own brother and sister are perfect examples of that. Is there something you need Missandei?” 

Arya turned around sharply, her hair whipping in her face. The queen's handmaiden, a girl of an age with Arya, stood by the door as barefooted as Arya was. She paid a quick deference to Arya before facing Tyrion Lannister once more.

“Queen Daenerys requests your counsel urgently my lord.” The girl said in the strange, lilting accent of Naath.

“As ever I am needed.” Tyrion stood and stretched before nodding at Arya and sweeping out of the room with a grandiosity that was bigger than his size.

What a queer little man, Arya thought. But he left me more enlightened than I was before.

Even with all of Arya’s skills, it was hard to learn anything of the dragon queen that wasn’t simply rumour or legend. She seemed to be remarkably tight-lipped. The people she trusted were few and her trust seemed to be well placed because they did not indulge in gossip and whispers. 

But Arya knew of someone who was possibly even more skilled in subtle spying than she. 

Arya found Bran in the Tower Room with Sansa. 

Bran was reading a leather bound book and Sansa was silently sewing something onto an ivory gown. If Bran wasn’t there Arya would have felt like it was all those years ago when all the girls of Winterfell would sit here for their sewing lessons. She remembered how Septa Mordane would praise Sansa’s needlework and turn her nose up at Arya’s crooked stitches and scold her for her failures. (Arya’s sewing was still atrocious. Were she still alive Septa Mordane wouldn’t be happy about that. Neither would Lady Catelyn, Arya realised.) It could almost feel like then, but Sansa’s innocent grace and Jeyne Poole’s laughter and Beth Cassel’s hushed chatter were all missing. Arya felt very sad all of a sudden.

“Arya!” Bran exclaimed drawing Arya’s attention away from the past. 

Sansa looked up and smiled at her.

Warmth filled Arya’s heart burning some of her sadness away and giving her the strength to ask her following question.

“Is the queen barren?” Arya asked immediately, causing her sister’s smile to drop both at her bluntness and at her question. Bran seemed just as perturbed.

“I have ... I have seen her birth black, dead creatures thrice when I walked in her future.” Bran said looking at her curiously.

Sansa’s face twisted into a frown. “Why are you asking about this? It is not right to talk of Queen Daenerys’s sadness like this.” 

Arya sat next to her sister and slumped her shoulders. “I just needed to know. It clears up something that I’ve been wondering about since dawn broke.”

“Are you well, sister?” Bran asked, the concern in his eyes was evident. Even Sansa looked concerned through her disapproval.

“I’m fine little brother,” she replied. “I just talked to the dragon queen.”

Sansa’s smile brightened but she still looked hesitant. “Good. All will be well now won’t it?”  

“Yes. You’ll be married to a dwarf and I to our brother. Perfectly well.” Arya turned to face her sister. “Just like we dreamed of as children.” 

Sansa’s eyes grew as wide as saucers and she put her needle and gown to the side. Arya caught a glimpse of a grey paw on the front of the dress. “Our brother? Do you mean Rickon? Why ever would you...” 

Sansa trailed off. She opened her mouth twice and then shut it instantly, seemingly at a loss for words but Bran was not so afflicted. 

“She means Jon,” Bran said, strangely calm. “Don’t you sister? That’s why you asked of the queen.” 

“You don’t seem surprised.” Anger started to rise in her body. She had thought Bran was done keeping secrets from her.

“I had a dream but I did not know what it meant until now,” Bran said cautiously. He closed his book with a loud thud! “I did not even know it was about you.”

Sansa’s voice was hoarse when she asked, “What did you dream?”

“I dreamt of a dragon, large and terrifying with fire red scales. A dragon but one that breathed ice in place of fire. It was hurt. Something had torn out some of its scales and from the wounds flowed thick black blood yet the dragon barely seemed to acknowledge it.”

Bran’s words sent a shiver over Arya. That sounded like a nightmare not a dream.

“Crowds of people ran screaming from the beast but they stopped when they felt its chill. It was blistering cold but as healing and as cleansing as fire could ever be. It kept blowing ice over some burned earth until a white, nameless woman with red hair and red eyes sprouted from the ground. When that happened, frost started rising from the dragon’s scales instead of steam, freezing the blood and healing the wounds.”

“Blood and ice,” Sansa looked troubled. “That sounds like an ill omen.”

“Omens are for sailors and fisherwives.” Arya replied chewing her lip. “Blood and ice is all the north has known for years upon years.”

“It was a green dream Arya,” Bran admonished her. “You know how real my dreams are.” 

“I know they’re real,” Arya relented. “So that means I either anger the queen or marry my brother and face doom.” 

“Jon is not our brother. He’s a Targaryen.” 

“That wasn’t my point Sansa.” Arya said through clenched teeth.

“Why do you both see doom when none of us know what my dream could mean?” Bran asked. 

Sansa looked at Bran incredulously. Arya was of the same opinion with her sister but she didn’t want to admit it. Is this what safety was? Always fearing future disaster? 

“I won’t marry Jon,” she said finally. “We can find a way to appease the queen. We can suggest another betrothal.” 

“You can’t say no to the queen Arya.” Sansa said dejectedly. “Not now when our alliance is so fragile.”

“Sansa’s right.” Bran stated. It bewildered Arya how her little brother could appear calm through most anything, she knew he couldn’t possibly feel that way all the time ... not truly.

“What would you have me do then?” Arya asked helplessly. 

“Do you have any objections to being Jon’s wife?” Bran asked. “Other than fearing future doom?”

Arya chewed her lip. That was the crux of what Arya had been trying to figure out since talking to Daenerys. 

Would it be so bad being Jon’s wife? She could imagine touching him or kissing him if she tried hard enough, but she truly could not imagine letting him do things to her that she’d seen whores do with their men. But that didn’t matter. She did not think she wanted to do those things with anyone. 

She loved Jon more than she could ever love any other man. She had always known that. Jon was like part of who she was – a part that she could always love. And he was fair to look upon; a fierce warrior, a skilled commander and so strong.

Even more he loved who she was, swords and all. She couldn’t think of any other choice that would be made for her that would be better than this. Any other man and she may not even be able to train with Dark Sister or Needle or keep her dagger at her hip and her dirk next to her bed, Nymeria might even be a problem. Was there anyone else, man or woman, who would accept all of her: the good and the bad, especially the bad? 

Arya had been looking for an answer all morn and there it was.

“No.” Arya said. “I don’t. I can marry Jon.” 

Sansa folded her hands and placed them on her lap. Arya could see the hint of doubt flickering behind her sea blue eyes but she looked nowhere near as scandalised as Arya expected. 

“Then we have our answer.” Bran smiled. “If tragedy is to come, it will come no matter our choices. We cannot cause discord simply because of fear.”

“When did you grow so wise?” Arya shook her head and smiled back. “You’ll be a great Warden of the North.” 

Bran startled. “I – truly?” He didn’t see this in his dreams then. 

“There was never any question,” Sansa smiled. “You are the eldest living son of Eddard Stark. It was always going to be you.”

“Father would have been proud, Bran,” Arya agreed. “So proud.” 

“We will announce it at supper,” she could hear the emotion in his voice. “Along with your betrothal.”

“We must talk to our lords first.” Sansa said. “They will feel slighted if the southron lords are told at the same time as them.” 

“That is wise sister.” Bran agreed. “On the morrow then.”

Bran looked at Arya questioningly. “Have you talked to Jon?” 

Jon. She might have made up her own mind but she knew nothing of what her cousin thought of all of this.

She had to talk to Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's reaction was supposed to be in this chapter but honestly he has so much going on in his head that I felt it would be unfair not to do it from his POV so next chapter will be a Jon interlude.
> 
> So I was thinking that I should seal up this story in a few chapters and do the time jump in an entirely new work in this series. Mostly because I want to do multiple POVs. What do you guys think?


	6. Interlude: Jon

Jon watched the stars fade as the black night awakened. Dawn broke leaving its amber and purple hues across the sky.

He had not slept at all last night, nor did he get more than an hour’s rest the night before. The lethargy would have slowed him down had he let it but he kept his movements brisk and tried to hide the fog that clouded his mind. 

Even so he had the faint suspicion that Arya could see right through his farce. 

It seemed as if those dark, grey eyes saw everything; nothing like the laughing eyes of the young, carefree girl who had once been his sister. 

When Jon saw his little sister he felt sharp pains in his heart. Some days she would smile and jape and that stubborn jut of her chin would appear and he would see glimpses of the sweet yet wilful girl she had once been. More often however, he would see this hardened woman-child who had a cold practicality to her that unnerved him. 

When he looked at Bran, and Sansa he saw the same thing. The coldness and the hardness. None of them were the children they were when they left Winterfell – the softness, the sweetness, the innocence was all gone.

He remembered when Sansa returned a few days ago, she had embraced him closer and more warmly than ever before; he had hoped, so briefly, that perhaps the vestiges of their old life would remain in at least one of them, that the gods would be kind enough to give them even that: the gods were rarely that kind. 

Sansa had proven to be nothing like the soft-hearted dreamer she was a thousand years ago; she was clever and shrewd with cold, blue eyes that seemed to see deep inside you. He couldn’t tell how much she saw when she looked at him but she kept turning away with an expression on her face as if she tasted something sour in her mouth. It was oddly reminiscent of the way Lady Catelyn once looked at him. That should not have had the power to hurt him any longer and yet – power sometimes lay where it was least expected. He had learned that a long time ago.

After all who would have believed that an exiled princess, a crippled boy, a scrawny girl, a dwarf and a newly resurrected bastard would be the tools needed to save the world. Once he had voiced this to Tyrion and he had chuckled. Power lies where people think it lies Lord Snow, nowhere else, the little man had said. Jon’s own fleeting brushes with power had taught him that truth.

There was a soft knocking on his door and Gilly entered. She stood by the door waiting. She wouldn’t look up. Even with her babe back in her arms for nigh a year now, she would not look him in the eye. Jon still could not tell if it was because she feared him or loathed him. Perhaps it was a bit of both. She would not be the first and he did not believe she would be the last.

She didn’t speak until he called her name.

“The queen of beasts – of dragons is without.” Gilly said, her voice stronger than he expected. Sam did say she was brave.

“Let her in,” Jon said briskly. 

Gilly nodded and stepped out. When she returned it was with his aunt. It was strange to think of Daenerys as such but that was the truth of it and it would do him no good to pretend. 

“Nephew,” she greeted him with a smile. 

“Your Grace,” Jon replied as he stood. “Please sit.” 

Gilly slipped out of the room while he gestured to the wooden chair that sat opposite him separated only by a large, ornate oak table.

“There’s no need for such formalities Jon,” she said, scoldingly, taking a seat. “Not when we are alone.” 

“Forgive me Aunt Daenerys. Some habits are hard to break.”

“That is understandable,” the queen's eyes were far away. 

They sat in silence for a long moment. Impatience threaded through Jon’s thoughts but he let her sit and think. Silence was hard for him to come by most recently. 

It was strange that Daenerys would choose to come to him this early. They got on well but that did not typically extend to visits this early in the morn. There had to be a reason that she would be here like this. Curiosity gnawed at him.

“Do you think me a benevolent queen?” she asked finally.

Jon’s eyes had begun to wander buy they snapped back to her face at her words. Of all the things he’d expected this wasn’t one of them. Daenerys wasn’t prone to doubts. And if she was she had never shown them to Jon.

“I ask because while we have not known each other very long you are my blood and I expect the truth from you.” 

“You are just and I know that justice does not oft give way to benevolence.”

He wondered if this was about Aegon Blackfyre who once thought himself to be Aegon Targaryen and sought to claim her throne. Aegon who had died from Rhaegal's fire when he had tried to steal him from his mother, a Targaryen funeral. 

Tyrion had told him that Daenerys had the opportunity to stop Rhaegal but she watched Aegon die instead of letting him steal her crown.

“So you think the good of the realm is more important than our own desires?” she asked. “Our own comfort?”

Jon remembered what Lord Eddard would say to him and Robb after delivering the King’s Justice. You must take no joy in it. A leader’s own wishes should always come second. Had he remembered that he may not have died, cold and alone in the snow.

“I do.” 

It was easy to say but that did not mean it was easy to do. 

 “Then I should hope you will take with ease what I am about to say.”

Daenerys looked at him with deep purple eyes and Jon felt unsettled. He did not know why but had he been a lesser person he would have shifted in his seat. 

“Why do I have the feeling that I just walked into a trap?”

At that Daenerys’s delicate features grew warm with a smile. “I don’t need to deceive you nephew. Not now at least. I just came here from the godswood.”

Jon looked at her queerly. “I did not think our godswood would hold much appeal to you.”

“It doesn’t,” she admitted freely. “But I had hoped to find Lady Arya there and I did.”

“Arya,” Jon said slowly. 

Arya did not have the easiest of tempers. She was smart enough not to intentionally insult the queen, but Daenerys had been annoyed that Arya was taking so long to bend the knee.

“You said she was a smart girl. I hope you’re right,” Daenerys continued. “I gave her much to think of. And now I am going to do the same with you. ”

Jon raised a brow and waited for her to continue. He couldn’t tell where this was headed and he did not like that feeling.

“I proposed to her that she take a husband soon and –”

“She is a girl of twelve!” Jon replied, thunder in his voice. 

“And I proposed that husband be you,” Daenerys continued smoothly as though he never interrupted her. “It was you who said that our desires should come second to our duty.” 

He had stepped right into this. Jon seethed. And yet through his annoyance he could see why she made the suggestion.

The queen wanted someone loyal to the crown to marry into a great family, that much was clear but why him? He was a royal bastard with a highborn upbringing who was taught by a maester and a master at arms true but he was no woman to come with a dowry. He had no lands and would soon have no titles. What great lady would have him? He could not do that to Arya. She deserved so much better than that.

He had considered marrying once before at Stannis Baratheon’s bequest and again when he was named King, however he thought he would have been free from that particular duty when he lay down his crown. 

Yet his wants tended to matter very little. If he must he would accept this burden but he could not marry Arya.

“There must be other options.” Jon said in clipped tones. “Perhaps a Tyrell girl or a Martell.”

“I do not doubt the loyalty of the people of the Reach or Dorne. They have reasons enough to be loyal to me and reasons more to want the Lannisters dead.” 

“As does the North.” Jon replied. “Or do you not trust us – me?” 

Daenerys ignored his question. “The people of Westeros know me as the daughter of the Mad King. And my Lord Hand is a Lannister and a kinslayer too. I need him but my people love him not. Nor do they love me as of yet. They fear my dragons but I will not rule through fear.” 

She spoke true but that did not mean that Jon liked it. Even after her efforts in the war he still heard whispers of “dragonspawn” when she walked by. He would sometimes hear them call him that too. He liked that even less.

“You ask too much of me.”

Daenerys gave him a hard look. “I do not ask for favours without offering something in return.”

Jon folded his arms and leaned back in his seat. He could not think of anything she could offer that would make him accept this but he was curious to hear her try.

“You are the only living son of Rhaegar Targaryen and the only blood relative left to me. Dragonstone is yours,” she leaned forward, resting her hands on the table and clasping her fingers together. “It will be yours whether you marry your cousin or not you must know. But I also need an heir. If I die before I birth an heir the kingdom will be thrown into chaos once more. I need an heir and that heir is going to be you.”

“I am a Snow.” Jon replied, not knowing how else to reply. 

“Not for very much longer.” The queen said. “You will soon be legitimised as Jon Targaryen.”

Her words made Jon think of Robb and the will he left behind. This was the second time someone wanted to legitimise him and make him their heir. 

Jon had wanted for so long to not be a bastard. To be a legitimate son, to marry some faceless lady and hold his trueborn son in his arms. He had dreamt of it. He had wished for it. He had wanted it so badly. But in those dreams – in those dreams he was called Stark. 

In those dreams the woman who gave him his child was not his sister.

His cousin. 

Arya was not his sister. She was his cousin. There would be no sin and no shame in taking her to wife. Yet he still did not think he could accept his aunt’s offer.

He would not be the source of Arya’s unhappiness. 

But then he thought of her married to anyone else and a boiling rage burned in his chest and his hand twitched to throttle a man that did 

not yet exist. 

He remembered what it felt like when he believed her to be married to the Bolton bastard. The fear, and anger, the sheer frustration. If he refused his aunt, could he endure that once more?

“And for that to happen I must marry a girl who was once my sister.” 

“She was your sister and Eddard Stark was your father and your mother was some nameless wench. None of that is true today. The past has passed. The present is where you must now live.”

Jon did not appreciate being lectured by his silver haired aunt but she did not speak lies.

“You promised to serve and serve you must.” Daenerys said. “You can think on it for now nephew but I expect an answer on the morrow.” 

An answer of agreement was what she expected. He did not know if he could give it to her. Not when his mind was at war.

A small serving girl, no older than eleven burst through his door without knocking. Even Daenerys looked startled. 

“Missandei you should have knocked.” The queen scolded.

“Forgive me Your Grace but a raven has arrived for you most urgent Lord Connington has said.” Missandei replied.

“Pray excuse me nephew,” Daenerys stood and smoothed out her silk skirts. “I will see you at supper.”

She swept out of his solar with her handmaiden behind her leaving Jon with nothing but his own thoughts. 

He wondered what Arya thought of all of this. She’d never spent much time dreaming of her lord husband to Jon’s knowledge and if she did he was sure that he wasn’t what she’d dreamt of.

Jon dropped his head on the table. 

He had gone through so many titles. Bastard, steward, turncloack, oathbreaker, warg, Lord Commander, King of the North and now he was to be Prince of Dragonstone.

Prince Jon Targaryen. It was the Targaryen that bothered him the most. 

A loud rapping on his door made him lift his head. The day had scarcely started and he was weary to the bone of visitors. 

“Enter!” he called out rubbing his forehead

It was Sam who entered his solar this time; his eyes were red and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. That only served to reminded Jon that he had more problems.

Jon knew that Sam got little sleep as of late. He was as much seneschal of Winterfell as he was healer. Sam was a highlord's son, he knew the basics of running a castle and he studied at the Citadel, chained but not yet sworn. There was no one better to share his load. Jon felt guilty about how overworked Sam was of course but it could not be helped.

The tensions between the soldiers were high. 

His aunt's Unsullied were impeccably trained in ways that made Jon cringe and they found themselves involved in no brawls, but her Dothraki soldiers and the freeriders and sellswords that arrived with her brawled with the wildlings and Westerosi knights, and the Westerosi and the free folk fought due to their long held resentments towards each other, and the soldiers of the Reach had quarrels and tussles with the Iron Islanders, and the Valemen fought with the sellswords from Essos, it was hopeless. They had all fought white walkers in a night so dark that they none of them could see but for dragonfire; the most epic battle in over a hundred years and the comradery found in that gave way to old hatreds and feuds in only three moons. 

It was the waiting Jon supposed. 

After all was said and done they were being dragged into another battle that would never compare to the one they just fought and they had to sit and wait and recover in their wait for it. 

So in the meantime they were at war with themselves.

He could understand the restlessness. He would sooner be clashing steel against steel than sitting in his solar making decisions he did not want to make. This would soon become Bran's lot and Jon both envied him and pitied him. 

“What tidings Sam.” 

Sam gave him a tired smile. “Gilly finally named her babe. Sam she calls him.” 

“Have you decided on what their futures shall be.” Jon asked seriously.

“My sister writes that she is willing to take them in. She will be good to them, I know it. I’ll just – I’ll miss them.”

“Is that it?”

“In a sense, yes.”

Jon looked at Sam. He was sad, that was plain to see. It seemed that neither of them were happy today.

“Would you wed your sister?” Jon asked him.

Sam jolted and his hands went to his chains. 

“Jon that’s – no that’s ... my sisters are – well they’re my sisters. I would dishonour them and the gods would curse us forever.”

Jon was almost shocked at how violently Sam reacted. 

“Why are you asking this?” 

“My queenly aunt wants me to do exactly that.” 

“Queen Daenerys wants you to marry Princess Arya?” he asked, his hands still clutching his chains. 

“Aye. She does.”

Sam nodded though his eyes were still wide. “What are you going to do?” 

Jon looked up at Sam and stared at him for a long moment before he finally said, “See if you can find my sist- cousin and send her here – no, to the godswood. I’ll be there to meet her.” Jon had about more than enough of sitting in the solar for one day. “Don’t phrase it as a summons. She won’t like that.”

Sam nodded quickly and made for the door. 

“Sam,” Jon called out. Sam turned around.

“It will work out.” Sam smiled slightly before leaving.

Jon had dressed long before Daenerys came to visit him in a grey tunic and a black doublet and black breeches. He had not broken his fast but he did not need to. He did not hunger as of late, not for food. And now he had other things on his mind. 

Jon left the room that would soon be Bran’s and walked along the corridor. He hailed the wildlings, led by Tormund, sitting in a circle singing bawdy songs and they cheered at him before returning to their game. Jon was shocked when he spotted Rickon sitting with them, most like skipping his lessons, and there was joy and wonder in his eyes as the men and spearwives sang on. 

Jon was starting towards them when Tormund waved him off. Despite his better judgement he trusted Tormund and he knew Rickon would come to no harm in his presence. He left them be.

It was uncharacteristically peaceful today. 

The yard was full of men training, the clash of steel as melodious a song as The Bear and the Maiden Fair.  He steered clear of his former black brothers and they of him. Satin, and Pyp, and Grenn, and Edd and Sam were the only ones he troubled to call out to.

Some men were too busy with camp followers to notice him and some men were quick to wave and call out their “m’lords.” Men stopped him to talk to him, air grievances, to pay him false compliments, to invite him to share meat, mead and wenches with them. By the time he got to the godswood near an hour had passed since he left his room.

“I had thought you weren’t coming.” He heard a voice call out.

When he walked closer he spotted a small girl in brown wool with one hand dipped in the black pools. He kicked off his boots and sat next to her, submerging his feet in the waters. 

“Daenerys talked to me early this morn.”

“Just so,” came her soft reply. 

Jon did not respond for a short while then he kicked his feet up and splashed her with water causing Arya's solemn countenance to transform; she burst into laughter tossing her hand up, splashing him with water in return and shoving at him with her shoulder. He let himself rock sideways from the impact. 

“I think Daenerys might be mad in the head,” Jon ventured after another moment’s silence.

“I think that she would be wroth to hear you make such a jape.” Arya said. 

He glanced at her and he could not tell what she was thinking. He truly knew nothing. Arya’s face had grown as still as water once more.

Awkwardly Jon wrapped his arm around her skinny shoulders. Arya smiled slightly as she leaned into his side. He could almost pretend that they were the same children they were all those years ago. 

His cousin’s next words shattered that illusion. 

“I was inside Nymeria before you came,” she said, as though it was nothing. “I think you should send some men out hunting in the far side of the forest. There is so much fresh game out there and we have more mouths to feed than we’ve ever had.”

Jon looked down at her. He hadn’t dreamt of Ghost in many nights. He had to dream in order to enter his wolf and he had to sleep in order to dream. He had not yet mastered the art of skinchanging during his waking hours; not like Arya and Bran.

He let her suggestion lie until she looked up at him. “You need to accept that Ghost is a part of you Jon. Reach for him. Don’t push him away.”

“Ghost is the least of my concerns just now,” he replied grimly. “And I think you know that.”

“One flesh, one heart, one soul.” Arya said as stubborn as ever. “He will always concern you.”

“I am not wed to my wolf.”

“As good as.”

He wondered if she brought up talk of marriage intentionally or not. 

“As we are speaking of marriage,” Jon said slowly. “I was recently offered a betrothal.”

“To whom I wonder?” she asked drolly. Amusement lit up her face at his fumbling attempt at broaching the subject.

Jon blundered on anyway,

“Arya I place your happiness before most things. I always have. So much has changed. Bran dreams the future and sees with a third eye. Rickon runs around with wildlings and Skagosi men. Sansa can scarcely stand to look at me. And you – you have changed most of all. But I want you to be happy, that hasn’t changed.”

Arya slipped out from under his arm and turned to face him. The grey pools of her eyes were softer than he had seen them in a long time. 

“If you will not have me then I will convince my aunt to never speak of this proposal again.”

Arya looked at him for a long moment before catching him off guard and throwing her arms around his neck.

“I knew it.” 

Her lips brushed against the nape of his neck as se whispered those words over and over.

What is it that she knew, he could not tell but he wrapped his arms around her waist in response until she was calm once more. 

Arya pulled away from him and took a moment to compose herself. 

“You’ll never try to control me or change who I am,” she jabbed him in his chest with a finger. “If you promise me that then yes, I will marry you.”

Jon smiled in wonder. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Arya smiled brightly now. She looked as happy as she did when they reunited moons and moons ago. 

“I have to tell Sansa.” Arya said. “She was worried but now she won’t be. At least not as much as she was.”

She paused for a moment before kissing his cheek and loping from the godswood like a wild she wolf. 

Her acceptance was as surprising as it was welcome. No one could keep her safer and happier than he could. Jon had always known that. And Arya had never cared for status and titles but he did not think she would accept so easily.

The sun was overhead when Arya left and large trees were raised above him. The tree he sat in front of, with its scary face and red eyes was the largest. It was a powerful place this godswood. Touched by the Red God as he was his gods were the old ones and it was here that he felt them the strongest. 

Dragonstone had no godswood, he remembered. Meslisandre had put it to the torch to serve her own god. She had burned the place of worship just like she wanted him to burn this one.

How could he live in a place where his gods were not respected? He recoiled at the idea. He had forgotten about that.

He reached for Ghost like Arya said and for a moment the smell of dead leaves and rotting earth filled his senses as he prowled through the forest. 

He was big and strong and as silent as a stone as he stalked his antlered prey.

It had spotted him and the smell of fear invaded his nostrils. He bared his teeth. A threat. The prey darted into the trees and he ran steadily after it, eager for the chase.

Jon gasped as he opened his eyes. One flesh, one heart, one soul. 

He was a Targaryen or at least he soon would be. Flying and fire and dragons were his lot and yet amidst earth and ice and wolves was where he felt most at home.

Could Dragonstone be a home to him like Winterfell was? A place with no godswood, no weirwood tree and no springs. He did not know but it gave him comfort that Arya would be the person he would figure that out with. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer to update than I expected but as I was writing, Jon refused to shut up. Lol.


	7. Secrets & Announcements

Pebbles and bits of rough stone bit into Arya’s bare feet as she ran across the hard ground looking for her sister. She hadn’t been entirely honest with Jon when she told him that Sansa was a little worried. Her sister was more that just a _little_ worried. Sansa had stopped her before she went in search of Jon and warned her to be careful, as if she needed such a warning. Jon was no danger to her and Arya was more than capable of taking care of herself.

Arya had known that Jon would allow her more freedom than most but to hear it from his lips gave her some comfort. She didn’t realise that she herself still harboured any doubts at all until the relief washed over her like a cool, steady river upon hearing his words.

She would find her sister, assuage her doubts and that would be the end of any misgivings. 

She found Sansa neither in the Tower Room, nor in her chambers, nor by the gardens, nor in the kitchens. 

The great hall was empty with most people already breaking their fast hours ago. Arya’s belly rumbled at the thought. She had foregone eating this morn for the purpose of prayer, promising herself that she would eat as soon as she was done; as circumstances allowed she had neither eaten nor prayed despite finding herself in the godswood twice today. Her belly ached for lack of food.

She could find Sansa later. Arya trekked back to the kitchens to give Ullyna a visit. Ullyna and Myra, two northern women and a big wildling woman named Hella oversaw the kitchens and had their underlings scurrying in obeisance to their big spoons and even bigger bellows. They treated none of the workers ill to Arya’s pleasure but they were fearsome enough. Even Rickon would hesitate to sneak in and steal a pie or a hot cake.

It was crowded as she entered, with workers and servants and cooks. The castle was overrun with empty bellies; with soldiers and wildlings, lords and ladies and knights, freeriders and sellswords, the household men and the guardsmen, and the smallfolk who had nowhere else to go, not to mention Queen Daenerys and all her men. Wisdom would dictate that they send the useless mouths away but Arya would not have it and neither would Bran. So they stayed, and the kitchens were always busy and men were always at the hunt. 

Arya ducked between cooks and servants until she found who she sought.

Ullyna did not even see Arya there until she poked her in the back. She turned around with her spoon raised when she realised who it was.

“I sent Alla to your rooms with breakfast and you were nowhere to be found m'lady,” she said reproachfully.

“I had much to do Ullyna.” Arya grinned. “Really I did not think to be so busy today.”

“Aye,” she nodded. “Well I wouldn’t let Hella get a hold of you m'lady. No I wouldn’t. She put extra black bacon and the last of the honey for the rice porridge in it special for you and your sister told her to give your food to that wretched Imp husband of hers. The gods know that his lewd jokes are enough to make Hella want to take that spear of hers to the back of his head. She almost upended the tray over him instead of sending it to his rooms.” 

No one turned to look at them. It was busy enough and they were all used to Ullyna’s loudness.

Arya let her ramble on even as her belly growled near as loud as Nymeria. Ullyna was rough and coarse and she loved nothing more than the sound of her own voice but she was stalwart and loyal to House Stark and she would slip Arya extra tarts whenever she came to see her.

“Your broth was filled with the hot peppers that you like so. That should have given her some joy. Only the Dornish and some of them killers from across the Narrow Sea like things so spicy. He most like choked on it. But you know Hella, when she’s angry she’s like to stay that way for a long time. It was good that she went hunting with her free men. Let her be angry at a boar. So I would stay away m’lady because –”

“Ullyna my sweet,” Arya interrupted her. “I would so like a pie or a piece of cake or some porridge even if there’s any remained.”

Ullyna raised a brow. It served not to make her mousy features look sceptical but amused.

“I’ll make it up to Hella,” Arya persuaded. “Oh you know I will but must I grow starved and even skinnier until then.”

“Pah! You’re not as skinny as you was when you first got here. I thought the wind would blow you away. I did for true.” 

Ullyna was also prone to exaggeration. Arya decided to find it charming a while ago.

Arya pouted, looking down and kicked the ground. That was the easiest way to get Ullyna to melt. She did not have to look up to see Ullyna's features softening. Hella wasn't so easy to appease. As luck would have it that was not who she was trying to wrangle food out of. 

Arya felt a hot, firm crust pressed into her hand and she looked up. 

“It's a cheese pie.” Ullyna grinned. “Now get out of here.” 

Arya grinned before darting out of the kitchens and leaving them to their work. She tread around the grounds wandering and eating, no destination in mind, hoping to find Sansa as she walked. 

She saw Tormund and some of his free folk sitting in a circle and she went their way. She would oft stop to talk to some of the roughened freeriders and the wildlings when she walked about Winterfell. They amused her and she was sure she amused them in return. She could swear like a sailor and she wasn’t afraid to talk rough. 

“Har! Look friends, it’s the Stark lass!” he bellowed when he spotted her. “Looks like we’re to be overrun by wolves today eh?”

Arya raised her brow, “I believe you could shake the leaves off of trees with your voice alone.”

“I can do more than that,” he boasted. “I can bring down all the walls of this castle.”

The men and women sitting around him roared in laughter. Some of them eyed her warily, some of them did not spare her a glance, but the ones who were used to her only laughed. 

“Have you seen my sister?” she asked him.

Tormund looked to his friends and the ones that answered all shook their heads, except for a short, stocky, auburn haired spearwife. 

“The wolf kissed by fire went to the birds a little while back.”

Arya thanked her and took off, making her way to the rookery.

And like the spearwife had said she saw Sansa sitting on a bench at the side of the rookery, half hidden behind the walls. Arya heard a lower voice to her sister's high, melodious tone and it gave her pause. She couldn’t see who it was, he was obscured by the wall but it was not Jon, or Bran, or the Imp, or Rickon, she knew the cadences of their voices. 

Arya slipped behind the building, quiet as a shadow, to listen. 

“ ... my way you would be my wife Lady Sansa.” A male voice spoke lowly. “I was promised.”

“I was promised many things too,” came Sansa’s teasing reply. “We all must live with disappointments.”

“What if I refuse?” was the man’s response. “I can challenge your husband to a duel. I like my chances. He’s less than half a man.” 

“You would deny the queen for me?” Sansa asked disbelief in her voice and Arya caught a thread of frustration there too. 

“The queen has made me no offer so she will feel no insult,” The man replied offhandedly. 

“Your children will be heirs to the Iron Throne,” she said, trying to persuade. “And to the Vale.”

So it was Harrold Arryn then. Arya had not spent much time around the man. He had arrived with Sansa and the Blackfish but he was too arrogant for her taste. She knew that he and Sansa had to have known each other and she had heard rumours from some Valemen that he and her sister were betrothed. She had dismissed it as simple rumour. Sansa in her time here had been adamant on being Lady of Casterly Rock and she had not so much as looked in Lord Arryn’s direction. Arya had assumed that they did not get on in the Eyrie. She was clearly wrong.

“Your children would be heir to the Vale were we wed.” Harrold suggested. 

“Yes. I would like that I think but ... well my husband is her Hand and she seems more fond of him than I understand,” Arya could almost mistake her for displeased if she was not also hearing the carefully placed pauses and the anticipation. “She has dragons my lord. Don’t you fear them?”

“I am brave not a fool.”

“I know so my lord. And you are gallant too.” She smiled sweetly. “What better way to tame a dragon than to wed it?” 

“Dragons cannot be tamed sweet lady,” Harrold said. “Women however are a different matter.”

“She is a queer woman I must admit.” Sansa tilted her head to the side. “But ever so beautiful. Can't you think of your pretty, silver haired babes running about the Red Keep.”

Arya wondered what Sansa was playing at, she knew well enough that Queen Daenerys would most like never bear a child.

“Birds fly as high as dragons my brave lord.” Sansa continued. “Our good Lord Robert would have wanted House Arryn to fly as high as possible.”

“As high as honour.”

“I can suggest the idea to Lord Tyrion if you want my lord. But mayhaps you should put forth a proposal on your own so it would not look as though she did not consult her men about it, don’t you think?” 

Sansa made it sound as though it was his idea and not hers. Deft. Arya admired her sister's cunning. Men would take a woman’s advice but they enjoyed believing that they were the truly clever ones.

“Yes,” he replied a little louder. “Yes I will speak to my council and I will let them know that you are as wise as you are beautiful. They will like this idea I believe.”

“Oh I’m sure they will,” came her simpering reply. “You are so clever to think of this and to put the good of your Valemen over love.”

“Gallantry is in my blood my lady but one kiss before I leave,” he said. “It may be our last time. Dragons have too much fire in them. They do not respond well to being horned.” 

“Ah but it must be a secret kiss dear Harry.” Sansa said sadly. “My husband killed the last man to cuckold him; the whore too.”

“My sweet lady married to a kinslayer. It’s perverse!” 

“You are so right my lord, but with my brave Young Falcon at court I will be safe won’t I?”

“You need not fear my lady. This will pass.” Arya heard the rustling of silk that indicated Harry standing. “I really must discuss this with my councillors.”

In his haste Harry seemed to have forgotten his kiss as Arya saw him rush pass the rookery. When Arya looked back at her sister she saw that her graceful smile had gone complacent.

Arya waited a moment before walking towards her. Sansa did not notice Arya until she was sitting next to her in Harry’s discarded seat. Sansa jumped when she saw Arya, her hand pressed against her chest

“Sansa dear sister, I have good tidings.”

“A-Arya w-what are you doing here?” Sansa smiled nervously. “When did you – how did you find me?” 

“Oh was I not meant to?” Arya asked letting confusion rest on her face. 

“I was not hiding sister,” her sister had gotten control over her voice once more. “I just thought you would be with Jon. You talked to him didn’t you?”

A poor diversion but Arya let it pass. She had time enough for a confrontation. 

“Yes I did.” Arya said. “And it seems that we had no reason to fear and no reason to upset our queen.”

“I am glad,” Sansa’s smile grew warmer and served to make her beautiful face look lovelier. “I am glad for you both. You will learn to love each other just like Mother and Father did.”

Arya did not think of it like that. Her lord father and lady mother loved each other so much; could she and Jon find that? She loved him very dearly but a part of her still thought of him as her brother. 

“I am nothing like our mother.” Arya replied. “Jon though, he is so much like father.”

“Yes,” Sansa’s smile died. “He really is.”

When Jon mentioned Sansa barely being able to look at him she had tucked that in the corner of the back of her mind to think of later. Now was as good a time as ever to broach the topic.

“Why does Jon think you despise him?” Arya asked, to the point. 

Sansa looked surprised. “I never meant for him to think that I hate him. He was a great comfort to me when I lived in the Vale. The thought of my courteous bastard brother. I modelled myself after him for a time. I don’t hate him.”

“Then why avoid him so?” Arya asked. “It’s Father isn’t it?”

Arya had suspected that their lord father and the secrets he kept may have been the root of the issue.

“It's just ... he is not the person I believed him to be.”

“He was still our father and a good and honourable man.” Arya protested.

“I know it and I love him no less.” Sansa said sadly. “He’s just not the person I thought him to be.”

“We all see things differently as the veil of innocence lifts.” Arya said. Some Braavosi whore had told her that once.

“I will talk to Jon. I do not want him to have any cause for resentments. Your marriage means that you both will live in King’s Landing with me.”

“I know.” Arya replied.

“I must confess that I am grateful.” Sansa said. “Navigating those waters alone was a fearsome task that I took no pleasure in confronting alone.”

Now was as good a time as any.

“Alone?” Arya asked innocently. “Your dear husband will be there with you won’t he? And that Young Falcon too if all your scheming works.”

Her sister sent her a sharp look. “I see you’re still fond of eavesdropping.”

“I see you’re still fond of lying.” 

“I never lied to Harry or to you!” Sansa protested.

“And now you lie to yourself.” Arya scoffed. “You do not like that boy half as much as he likes you. And Daenerys is no more capable than bearing children than Bran is of ever walking again. And you know that.”

“I meant that lie as a kindness.” Sansa’s eyes grew hard. “It is an advantageous marriage for him, better than he deserves with all his bastards scattered across the Vale and my part in securing it will earn us friends in the Vale and in King’s Landing.”

“Sansa –”

“And I did not suggest anything to Lord Harry that his councillors won’t suggest after the war. I know him better than you. He needs to be nudged into seeing a good plan for what it is. He is unambitious and powerful with many supporters in the Reach and the riverlands as well as the Vale a perfect match for an ambitious queen with shaky allies bonded by hate. And for you to judge me for thinking of the good of our family and –”

“By all means talk louder my cunning sister.” Arya said calmly. 

Sansa coloured and Arya took her sister’s hands in hers.

“I’m not judging you sister. I have done much worse. I just don’t see why it needed to be a secret. Jon is often too honourable to see sense and Bran can be like Jon in that way too but I would never have cast judgement over a plan like this.”

“My secrecy was not meant to offend Arya,” Sansa said carefully, “But I have grown used to doing things on my own.” 

“I suppose I have too.”

Neither Sansa nor Arya herself have divulged much about their pasts, not to each other at least. 

Arya stood and held out her hand and Sansa looked at her curiously. 

“Let’s take a walk,” Arya suggested. “The most time we’ve spent together since you’ve returned was with the dead.”

Sansa huffed, “That was rather morbid wasn’t it?” 

Sansa took her hand and they walked the grounds of Winterfell together. 

They did not discuss anything that happened after they left Winterfell choosing only to reminisce of the past and the people they’ve lost.

The sky was aglow with shades of red and gold by the time they reached the armoury. They were walking across the bridge when they saw Jon approaching them. 

He smiled faintly and bowed, gallant as ever. 

“Cousins.”

Sansa made the effort to smile at him and if Jon was surprised he did not show it. 

“Queen Daenerys has suggested that we feast tonight so that we may discuss our ... many announcements with all our lords.”

Arya’s brows furrowed and Jon hastily added,

“Bran called an emergency council after you left the godswood. Our lords have already been informed.”

“And how did they react?” Sansa asked.

“There was some protest about Arya and mine's betrothal and my bastard status was brought up, there was protest still when my imminent legitimisation was revealed but Bran managed to calm them.”

Jon looked exhausted and disgruntled, Arya wondered if was from tiredness or the tension. 

“We will be there cousin.” Sansa said with an easy smile.

“Good,” Jon answered. “I shall see you both then.”

Arya smiled at him and he smiled in return before walking away from them.

“That dress you wear is ... charming but I would like to burn it.” Sansa wrinkled her nose, turning Arya’s attention back to her.  

“It’s served me well in the past,” Arya faux-pouted. 

“Thankfully we are not in the past,” Sansa quipped before looking at her with narrowed eyes. “You’ve grown taller. I think some of my old dresses will fit you until we find a good dressmaker.”

“And we were having such a good time too.”

“I’ve sewn a new dress. I wanted to gift it to you for your nameday but I think you should wear it tonight.”

Arya looked at her sceptically. Things were still strange between them and she was not expecting a gift. 

“I'll have a servant in with it to dress you. It is important that we look like princesses of the North tonight.”

She was not wrong about that. A lot hinged on the way they appeared to their lords at supper.

The moon was high in the sky by the time they supped. They used the Great Hall at Arya’s urging. There was enough room in the hall to feast all the lords and ladies and knights at Winterfell – the soldiers could sup in their tents, the knights needed to be here for this announcement. Arya knew from experience that knights gossiped more than washerwomen it was the easiest way for the message to spread.

For now though, everyone was having a good time. The cooks made roasted boar and suckling pig and salted trout, there was ale and mead and wine and even some beer. It smelled sumptuous but a dull ache in her lower abdomen persisted likely from the nerves and so she chose not to indulge. Singers sang sweet songs and serving girls kept cups overflowed with wine.

Meat, mead and song kept even the most rambunctious of crowds placated for a time.

Arya was seated high on the dais in between Jon and Sansa. Meera and Howland Reed, along with Wyman Manderley, his daughters, and the she bears of House Mormont were offered seats of honour on the dais too. Bran chatted with the queen, Rickon bounced in his seat alternating between talking to Jon and leaning over Jon to talk to Bran, Sansa whispered to her lord husband and even Jon kept up polite chatter with Daenerys but Arya’s eyes searched the crowd below, always looking out for danger.

Wearing a silk, ivory dress with a direwolf emblazoned on its front made her feel strange. It had been so long since she’d worn a dress that went down to her knees. It made her see her body in a way that her shapeless dresses and tunics did not allow.

She had budding breasts, not at all large but they were there. Her hips flared out a little and she had a waist. She had not yet flowered but she would have a woman’s body soon. 

She knew she was not the only one who noticed. Sansa had nodded approvingly when she entered the hall and men’s eyes followed her when she walked. 

It gave her some pleasure that her hair was not nearly as intricately coifed as Sansa’s or Daenerys’s. She just wore a simple braid that fell above her collarbone.

She would not be able to run very quickly the way she was dressed. She doubted she would need to but she preferred being prepared. 

“It’s time,” Jon whispered in her ear when Tyrion started calling for silence. He had a rather big mouth.

Daenerys stood as soon as some of the noise died down. 

“I thank my Lord Hand for the juxtaposition of his very loud call for silence.” 

Laughter rang through the hall at her jest. The queen's smile was strained Arya noticed.

“We have fought a bloody fight and came out victorious. And we shall do it again. And we shall do it again.” Daenerys started to the approval of the lords. “But we shall have to go back to our lives when the war is done.” 

A roar erupted from lords and their nights. This war was long and when the songs were finished being sung everyone would be glad for the hope of peace. 

“The Starks have chosen their ruling prince and it pleases me to introduce the leal Bran Stark, First of his name, Prince of the North and Lord of Winterfell.”

The loudest cheers came from the northmen, the Valemen and the riverlords. Sansa beamed proudly as she clapped and Arya, Jon, Rickon, Meera and the Imp looked just as happy. 

It took a longer while for the applause to die down and Bran shone with joy. 

“Now war is dangerous and I know that well. So in the interim period until I am finally sitting on the Iron Throne created my ancestors, I must have an heir. My only living blood sits to my left and on the advice of my trusted council he is to be named Jon Targaryen, legitimised in the eyes of the gods and he will be my heir until such a time that I birth an heir of my own.”

There were titters over all the tables and Arya slipped her hand in Jon’s under the table and squeezed. His face was stone but he squeezed back gratefully in return.

“Now this is unprecedented and I know this,” Daenerys continued when silence fell over the hall once more. “And this will not be able to stand as it is which is why I have arranged a betrothal between Prince Jon and Princess Arya which they, their family and their people have agreed to.”

The noises of dissent grew until Daenerys hands clapped together.

“My nephew will be wed to a princess, a trueborn daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully. Their children will be trueborn Targaryens and I think we can all agree that Westeros lacks for dragons.”

There was some laughter at that. It was wise of her to mention their future children. It would appease many who have always kept their loyalty to the dragons.

Jon rubbed his finger across the back of her hand and Arya sent him a smile.

“Prince Jon takes after his father, my brother, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, with his bold courage, his clever strategy and his fearlessness in battle.” The dragon queen persisted. “And as such the seat of Dragonstone belongs to him. Dragonstone was built by the blood of the dragon and to the blood of the dragon it will return too. This is my wish and so it shall pass.”

Arya looked around and she saw that none of this sat well with everyone. Whether it was because of a bastard being legitimised, married to a princess or being made heir of the Seven Kingdoms she did not know. And she knew that there were those who would take issue that only three kingdoms were allowed to rule themselves. Yet there were were more pleased faces than there were angry. 

“May we raise our cups to a long and peaceful reign!” Daenerys cried out.

At Daenerys’s declaration, cheers of “Stark!” and “Targaryen!” and “Prince of the North!” and “Queen Daenerys!” echoed throughout the hall. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Sansa heavy chapter but it was necessary. I wanted to showcase both Sansa's and Arya's specific skill sets.
> 
> The Blackfish, Asha Greyjoy and Val will feature in the next chapter and there will be more Jon/Arya interaction.


	8. Flowers

The night dwindled and men dispersed from the hall, some drunkenly and some without a stumble in their step. Queen Daenerys left on Lord Tyrion's arm and Meera left with her father. The hall slowly emptied until Arya and her siblings were the only ones left. 

She felt sad and angry and guilty to see them all sitting there. It just reminded her of the empty chairs and the people missing from them; her mother and father and Robb, even Uncle Benjen, all gone.

The people in this room were all that was left of her pack. Sansa, Bran, Rickon and Jon, they were the only ones left to her. 

Arya knew she was not the only one thinking of the people they’ve lost and it made her love them even more fiercely.

Bran's eyes were far off and Jon looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here, Sansa’s eyes were frozen but her arms were wrapped around herself protectively, even Rickon, who could hardly have remembered having many meals here with their family, seemed troubled.

He bounced on his feet before darting out of the hall with speed. 

“I’ll take him to bed,” Sansa offered quickly, throwing Arya an apologetic look before rushing out after their little brother.

“Well,” Bran started. “This is awkward.”

Arya grinned at that and even Jon cracked a smile. The discomfiture seemed to ease. 

“Lord Lannister designed a wheeled chair for me,” Bran went on. “He said it would help me move around without being carried.”

Bran looked nervous, almost afraid. Arya knew he hated being carried about as though he was no more than a child.

“Do you fear that it will not work?” Jon asked.

It seemed he touched on the root of the issue. 

“It might. The saddle he designed me worked well.” Bran said. “Still –”

“You don’t want to hope?” Arya asked.

“Not in vain.” Bran replied. His auburn locks fell in his eye as he bowed his head. It made him look so young.

He was young, Arya reminded herself. Only eleven, but he did not act it. None of them acted their age Arya realised.

“There is no reason to believe it will not work.” Jon cautioned. “Tyrion is more than learned. He and Sam could battle with wits alone and I do not know who will be the victor.”

“Sam will help won’t he?” Arya asked wrapping her hand around his wrist. Her fingers would not even fully circle it she realised, dismayed.

Jon was really much bigger than she. He was strong and his shoulders were broad, his hands were big and he was tall. She had grown a lot since she’d first left Winterfell and yet she was still small compared to him. It hardly seemed fair.

“He will. I'll ask him.” Jon said drawing her from her thoughts. 

Her cheeks coloured. It was not like her to forget herself like that. 

Silence descended upon them, Arya lost in her thoughts and Bran in his. She did not know what thoughts Jon were keeping.

After a while Jon offered to escort Arya and Bran back to their chambers when a ruddy, grey-haired man stepped in the hall from the shadows.

“You can take the boy,” the man said gruffly. “It would improper to take your own betrothed to her rooms. There will be talk.”

Arya almost told him what he could do with his _talk_ when Bran asked.

“Will you escort her then uncle?” 

It was her great-uncle Brynden Tully. She had never seen him before. He did not make a display of himself upon his arrival like Sansa’s young falcon and she did not search him out.

“I would be pleased if you did.” Arya said, hoping that she did not sound too stiff.

Arya turned to Bran and kissed him on the cheek. She embraced Jon quickly but as she moved to step away he whispered in her ear,

“I left something for you in your room.”

Arya smiled curiously before stepping next to her great-uncle. Ser Brynden, who was much taller than she, offered his arm and she took it gingerly as they made their way out of the hall, leaving Bran and Jon behind.

“You look just like your father,” Brynden Tully said as they walked.

“Thank you, ser,” said Arya cautiously. When she had avoided greeting her sister upon her return she had concurrently not received her uncle like she should have. She did not know him well enough to know if he had taken offense. She felt chagrined; she should have thought of that before. 

It did not seem like he harboured a grudge as he held her arm lightly while they made the short journey to her rooms. 

“It must have been a strange thing,” he continued. “Being the only dark child in a river of red.”

She was not the only dark child of Winterfell but of course the Blackfish knew that already.

Arya looked up at his hard, lined face and his grey hair. He looked imposing. She wondered if it served him well. He was a knight was he not? Knights fought in battle and laid sieges and destroyed towns and terrorised and murdered innocents. It must serve them well to look scary. 

That was a wicked thing to think, she knew but Arya was wary of his kind; knights and soldiers. She could fight beside them but she could never trust them. Not even the ones who were her kin. She had seen all that they were capable of.

“Your mother loved you very dearly,” he continued. “She would have been proud at how gracefully you handled tonight’s insult.”

Yes, her great-uncle had been among the few who were displeased with the queen's announcement. She just did not know his face at the time to spot it.

“Insult?” she kept her voice curious and confused. “Whatever do you mean?”

He shot her a discerning look. “You take no issue being wed to a bastard – and a dragon bastard at that? They have a history of treachery my lady.”

“I trust Jon, uncle and I trust our queen.” Arya answered, her insides burning as she pretended at demureness. It was so unjust that with a name, lands and a title that people would still talk of Jon thus. It wasn’t shocking truly but neither was it fair. 

“Your mother did not trust the bastard,” he persisted. “She had good judgement about such things.”

 _Mother’s judgements were so sound that I had to plunge my Needle through her heart just to stop them and the harm they caused_.

Guilt coursed through Arya’s veins. She hated thinking about that. The Blackfish loved her and her sister and brothers for their mother’s sake. What would he say had he known that it was Arya who brought about her lady mother’s final death?

She cleared her throat. “Mother misliked Jon, I know. His presence in Winterfell shamed her and she had to see him every day. That is bound to manipulate anyone’s thoughts.”

His mouth twisted deepening the lines on his face. “Be that as it may I do not share your faith in him, nor your trust.”

She stopped as she reached the entrance to her rooms and the Blackfish with her.

“That saddens me, uncle.” Arya replied unable to keep the frustration from seeping into her voice this time. “I hope in time that will change.”

“I doubt it will little one. Sleep well,” he said gently.

She smiled her thanks and turned for the door before turning back to him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“Did you see mother before – before she left for the Twins.”

It was only then that she saw grief cloud his eyes. She felt her heart thawing in response. Brynden Tully may have been a knight but he loved Lady Catelyn. She could see it in his eyes.

“She never gave up hope on finding you and your sister.” He replied. “Never.”

Her lady mother was never one for giving up. Even in Winterfell she would not give up on the hope of making Arya a lady. If she had even the slightest hope of finding her she would have clutched to it like a wolf who had just found its prey.

It was enough to make her want to cry. Her mother actually wanted her and Arya did not – could not arrive in time.

If she had tried harder? If she had urged the Hound to ride faster? Would she had made it in time?

If she did then she would be dead too.

“Thank you uncle.” Arya said thickly. 

Ser Brynden bowed.

Arya was in her room when the first tear fell. Had she not cried enough for a lifetime? 

Her eyes were blurry when she noticed a pretty vase at her bedside filled with blue roses. 

Jon had said he left her a gift.

She loved winter roses. It was a sweet gesture from her brother – no her cousin, her betrothed. He’d made a crown for her from these roses once. She’d worn it for weeks and weeks and weeks until the flowers withered and the crown unravelled.

Arya started to laugh through her tears as she picked a rose and held it to her chest. Her father liked flowers as much as she. He would always take them to the crypts and he would  smile when she gifted him a bunch, ragged as she looked foraging through the dirt searching for the pretty ones.

She sobbed harder, shudders racking through her body. She could not tell for who she wept. Did she cry for her mother? Not the horrid creature she had become, but the mother Arya loved and admired. Was it for her father? Was she weeping for Robb? Did her tears keep flowing because of guilt or sorrow or rage?

She could not tell. All she knew was that her tears stained the pillow as she clutched her rose in her hand and drifted into a restless sleep.

She ran with wolves that night. 

There were new wolves in her pack now. Wolves from this place she barely remembered. They hunted and feasted together. None of her wolves were fool enough to try to mount her.

These new wolves though were untrained. 

A black wolf with eyes like a dirty river sniffed around her and she growled low in her throat.

He did not heed the warning. Fool. As he tried to mount her she pounced on him, grabbing his throat in her maw until she tasted hot, sweet blood. 

The weaker wolf scurried away, whimpering and the hunt began once more.

It should not have surprised Arya much to awaken on a bed of blood. There was blood in her mouth when she was in Nymeria, it was only fitting that she should wake up in a pool of her own. It was high time truly. She would be three and one in two weeks. Septa Mordane had said that she would have her first flowering around this age. It should not have surprised her.

Then why did it? 

It was not panic or dread that rose higher and higher in her chest, it was weight, the burden of her future responsibilities. She was fit to be wedded and bedded now; to bear children and to raise them. It was a daunting task. A task she much preferred to think of as an inevitability for the future.

Her future was sneaking up on her like a shadow of the night.

She was ready for it. Wasn’t she? She had thought so.

She looked to the blue rose, still in her hand and smiled. Maybe she was ready. The gods had given Arya her first blood to remind her of that.

When the maids came in to change her sheets she was already dressed. She had torn an old tunic to shreds and stripped the cloth to place in her smallclothes to prevent bloodstains on her breeches. 

“Fast will be broken in the hall today m'lady with Queen Daenerys and Lord Tyrion and the princesses too.” Alla curtsied before going to help the other maids.

The princesses? Were there more than her and Sansa? Perhaps Princess Asha would be there. Arya winced at the thought. Asha Greyjoy had no love for wolves after Jon took her brother’s head and her Iron Islanders and their northmen loathed each other. 

There were fights everyday. They kept their distance from each other so that the uneasy peace would lie. But distance could not last forever. Not as they all ate and slept and breathed in the air of Winterfell.

“Thank you.” Arya said, then she wrinkled her nose. “Pray tell me, is Hella still wroth?” 

Alla turned back to her and grinned. “Oh most displeased m'lady.”

Of course she is, thought Arya. 

“I thought as much.” Arya shrugged before smiling at her.

She glanced at the flowers by her bed before departing for the hall. They cheered her much. She was glad for them. 

She would thank Jon later. Not in the hall. She remembered how he whispered to her. It felt too personal a gift to bring it up in front of everyone. 

_A different sort of secret to Needle._

Everyone was already seated when she entered. Asha Greyjoy was there sitting next to the silver queen, far enough away from any Stark. 

With others in the hall there at least it wouldn’t be as awkward as last night. It struck Arya as strange last night at everyone's reaction to being in the hall alone but the more she thought about it the more sense it made.

They were all home in Winterfell and happy to be but none of them had truly dealt with all that they had lost. Instead they chose to avoid it and talk of other things. 

They weren’t ready to face everything in the beginning but maybe they were now. Were they?

“Good morrow,” Tyrion cried out cheerfully from next to Sansa upon seeing her.

Arya nodded at him and moved to sit between Bran and Sansa. She saw an unfamiliar face at the table sitting next to Jon, a beautiful woman with hair like honey. 

Sansa whispered in her ear, “That’s Val. The wildling princess.”

Despite the enmity between the free folk and House Mormont, Val had been at Bear Island since the war.

Arya had heard of her from Tormund. The sister to Mance Rayder’s wife, a princess, though the free folk did not regard her as such. Alla's talk of princesses made sense now. Seeing the wildling princess first hand was interesting. Tormund had told her of how she’d stolen her own man and could survive battle if need be.

It was impressive. 

Daenerys knocked on the oak table.

“Before you arrived, Arya, we were discussing a possible regent for Prince Bran since you, Princess Sansa and our Jon will be joining me in King's Landing.”

A regent. Arya had not thought of that. Someone would need to rule Winterfell until Bran came of age. 

“Lord Reed might be able to help.” Sansa suggested as though continuing from a previous thread.

Daenerys tilted her head to the side, “Is he not Lord of Greywatch? Has he no duties there?”

Bran frowned. Arya knew what he was thinking, Lord Manderly, Lady Mormont, the people loyal to them all had duties of their own. Arya sighed. There was another option but she was loath to be the one to suggest it. 

Still, for the good of Winterfell.

“Ser Brynden has no duties and he is our blood.” 

Sansa seemed to approve of the idea and Bran looked at her curiously. 

“Ser Brynden knows nothing of the North and how we rule.” Jon interjected. 

Irritation coloured Arya’s thoughts. She could not swear by Brynden Tully’s knowledge of Northern law but he would be loyal, she saw that much in his eyes last night, and he would not try to usurp Bran's rule. It was not perfect but none of this was.

She almost spoke to that effect but Bran spoke before her.

“That is true, brother,” Bran admitted. “But I do. We need someone to deliver the Queen’s Justice until Rickon is old enough.”

“I’ll be giving justice?” Rickon asked, his eyebrows furrowed. 

Bran laughed and so did Arya. Sansa smiled at him. 

“Yes you will little wolf.” Jon said, amused as well. “And I suppose a knight would be the best person to learn you in swordplay.”

“At least until we get a master at arms.” Bran chimed in.

All else was silent as they watched them deliberate. 

“Bran studied under Maester Luwin like you Jon,” Sansa offered. “He is more than capable and until Rickon is old enough Uncle Brynden might be our best chance.”

Jon nodded thoughtfully. “I do not know him well so I cannot say. Will he accept if you offer.”

“Family comes first for a Tully, then duty, then honour.” Arya said.

“He lives by those words from what I’ve seen.” Sansa added.

“Then we have an answer.” Bran said clapping his hands together and glancing at Daenerys. 

Everyone was staring at them and it unnerved Arya. Bran looked at Jon raising his eyebrows in question and Jon simply shrugged. Rickon just started eating his eggs. Only Sansa seemed unconcerned with the attention. Perhaps she knew something Arya didn’t.

Whatever it was the rest of the meal passed in silence. Perhaps the Great Hall was destined to house only uneasy meals now.

After everyone excused themselves Arya went immediately to the gardens. 

She was well enough that she could take up her duties. Sam was new to Winterfell and the half-maester usually came to her bedside for help with the coin and wages. She had always been good with numbers. 

She just needed to do something first. 

When she found what she had been looking for, Arya walked into the kitchens and headed directly to a small woman with dirty yellow hair piled on the top of her head using a big spoon to stir an even bigger pot. 

“I have something for you.” Arya said loudly causing the woman to spin around rapidly.

The minute Hella's blue-grey eyes met hers she frowned. 

“Har! The wolf lass comes to ask for treats!” she cried.

“You bloody well know I came to beg your forgiveness.” Arya replied sardonically.

“Wolves never beg girl.” Hella warned. “They trick you into coming closer and closer and then they rip out your throat.” 

Well, that was more true than not. Still, the wildling woman was just being stubborn.

“Your throat is safe around me.” Arya insisted. 

“Eh you Starks are just a bunch of charmers.”

No one had ever accused a Stark of being charming before. Cold and as inflexible as ice, yes. But charming? 

However Arya could see the smile beneath Hella's frown so perhaps there was some truth in it.  

She brought her hands out from behind her back and thrust the bunch of wildflowers she’d gathered.

The harsh weather beyond the Wall gave no room for the growth of many pretty flowers. A lot of the free folk saw it as a frivolous thing for kneelers but those that like the song of Bael the Bard and the Winter Rose loved them. Hella was the latter. 

And as Arya expected Hella snatched them from her hands brusquely. 

“You’re welcome.” Arya said easily.

“Pah!” Hella put the flowers down to the side and took to stirring the pot once more. 

Arya smirked as she left the kitchens. She knew that was as good as she was going to get.

Arya should have gone to find Sam like she should but she went in search of Sansa instead. She had duties just like Arya did but Arya had to find her. Arya bled and her stomach ached, a dull pain, and she needed someone to talk to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that I am very happy that this day (that's been ongoing since chapter 4) is over. 
> 
> I am unfortunately going to be out of the country for two weeks from tomorrow. I won't have wifi and I'll be too busy to write, so you can expect an update in 3 weeks.


	9. Talk

Sansa was humming a sweet tune Arya had not heard before when she came upon her. She was sitting with her lord husband by the well stitching a crimson doublet as Lord Tyrion read in the sunlight. 

The sun did not shine so brightly this day. Clouds of grey were spread about the sky speaking of imminent rain. Arya did not mind. Spring rains in the north were not so bad; colder than the rains in Braavos and even colder than in the south, but warm enough for her. 

“Lord Lannister,” Arya greeted him. Both her sister and her good-brother looked to her. 

Sansa was giving her a heavy look as if to say, _be kind_. Arya had no reason not to be. She did not mislike him. A queer man he was but he did not mistreat her sister like she feared nor was he responsible for the evils of his family.

In fact he was responsible for the end of one of it’s greatest evils. She could appreciate the difficulty of such a task.

“My lady of Stark,” the Imp returned. “Though not for much longer I suppose.”

“I will always be a Stark, my lord.” Arya replied. “As I am sure you well know.”

“Yes, you Starks are quite prickly about your pride.” Tyrion allowed. “But I am married to one so I know it well.”

“My lord knows that I am with him in name as well as heart.” Sansa said, courteous as ever.

“But not yet in body my pretty wolf,” Tyrion quipped causing Sansa to colour.

She composed herself quite quickly to Arya’s satisfaction.

 “That will come soon enough, my lord,” Sansa said after a short moment.

Tyrion retorted easily, “Lannister to Stark, Stark to Targaryen. A recipe for disaster surely. Marriages to ones enemies tend to end in bloodshed.”

At Sansa’s stricken look and the grim set of Arya’s mouth Lord Tyrion began to chortle. 

“Ah leave a dwarf to his jests. We have not many laughs that are not gained at our expense.”

“I have never seen you without a smile.” Arya pointed out. Though his genuine smiles were far and fleeting. “Yet mayhaps it is because you are oft in your cups. Smiles come easily to those soaked in Arbor gold.”

That seemed to amuse the Imp further. “It’s Dornish red these days my lady.”

“Don’t mock sister.” Sansa gave her a look. “My lord loves his wine and he loves his merriments. There is naught wrong in that.”

“Aye,” Arya replied. “We could all benefit from more mead and song and laughter.”

“Then I will play a great service after the war is done and my beautiful sister and gallant brother are without their heads.”

“Just so,” replied Arya.

If he thought to unnerve them then he failed dearly. Mayhaps he did not “know the pit” as Izembaro liked to say. Arya would enjoy seeing Cersei's pretty, golden head on a spike and she knew Sansa would like to see it a great deal more. And after what the Kingslayer did to Bran, Arya would like nothing better than to spill his rotten blood and watch as the life left his face and none was left but a ghost. 

“I pray for your victory my lord.” Sansa flattered, not noticing the way Tyrion frowned. He did not seem to like her praise. Her sister had a mummer’s tongue but it needed to be honed.

“We all know of your valour in battle,” Arya echoed.

Tyrion smiled wryly, “My valour is much discussed.”

“Pray give me a moment alone with my sister, my lord.” Arya asked.

Tyrion closed his book shut. Arya did not often see him without one in hand. “I will leave you to your gossip then, my ladies. If I am the topic of discussion I pray I am well received.”

Arya stifled a smile as she watched him waddle away. He had not much grace, yet she enjoyed his wit and oddly enough she found him not unbearable to be around.

Sansa watched him walk away with a sad look in her eyes.

“Are you certain that you wish to remain his wife?” Arya asked slowly, not knowing how her sister would respond. “He is not exactly a model of beauty.” 

Sansa nodded, “He is ... as ugly as anyone could be, but his heart is good and beauty has not been very kind to me.” 

“And he has been.” Arya stated. Sansa had never said as much but she had never so much as flinched in his presence. 

“More than most.” Sansa said. “Except for – well he is of no matter. I think I could try to have happy days with him.”

Arya did not point out her slip. It was not prudent to voice your every discovery. And she did not know of whom Sansa spoke.

“And your nights?” Arya questioned.

Sansa looked at her with clear, blue eyes as a blush of pink kissed her cheeks. “His is not the face I see in my dreams, but then again, the face I do see is hardly any handsomer.”

Arya could not think of anyone uglier than the Imp. And the last she’d remembered of Sansa before fleeing the Red Keep was her misery over the breaking of her betrothal to Joffery who was as pretty as his heart was black; swooning over the valiant and fair Loras Tyrell and whispering to Jeyne Poole of the gallantry of Alyn who dreamt of being a knight. 

Ugly did not live in her sister’s dreams and was barely accepted in her waking hours. 

But Sansa had changed much from the girl Arya had left behind. 

“You will have a bedding soon.” Arya reminded her sister as she sat beside her. “Won’t you?”

Creases marred Sansa’s forehead and Arya felt the strange impulse to smooth them out with her fingers.

“Won’t you?” she pressed. 

“I don’t see why there will be a need for any ceremony. There is no proof that we never consummated our union,” Sansa said matter-of-factly. “Highborn ladies lose their maidenheads on top a horse more oft than not I’ve been told. I’ve never been the most diligent rider but I’ve spent more than enough time on mount.” 

Was that true? Arya wondered. None of the women she’d known in Braavos ever told her any such thing, neither the waif, nor the kindly man. Then, horses were not much used in the narrow streets of Braavos, or by the common people she’d known in Westeros.

Arya was a fierce rider herself. Did that mean that she would not bleed on her wedding night? How then would she prove herself a maiden? 

These thought tangled in her mind like a silky web. She would not have given it much thought a few moons ago but with her moon’s blood upon her and her heart soon to be joined to another ... 

Sansa seemed to sense her disquiet. “I am sure your bedding will not be very painful and if it is, you will grit your teeth and bear it with grace as any lady of your standing ought.” 

That was not the cause of Arya’s concern. Pain did not frighten her. The thought of laying with a man was different though – it was unknown to her. She had seen women bedding men of course, but it was rarely a pleasant experience, on the woman’s side that is. Yet she had never experienced it herself. 

She had dealt with Bobono's attentions and Raff the Sweetling's though none of them got as far as they wanted to, nor did she ever have any intention of letting them. 

She had tried not to think about it very hard but she hoped she would be able to bear it. Jon would not force her, she was sure of it. But that was not what frightened her either.

She had but one fear of what might be the consequence of the marital bed.

“That does not bother me,” she waved her hand dismissively. “Jon would never hurt me if he could help it. It is what comes a few moons after the bedding that worries me.”

Sansa appeared as taken aback as if Arya announced that she was worried that she was growing two extra legs and that a horn was about to sprout from her forehead. 

“You have always been fond of children, sister and them of you.” Sansa said uncertainly. “I admit I thought lesser of you for it, carrying about with the dirty babes born of lowborn men and women yet you seemed to have a certain way with them.”

Arya blinked. She liked children when she was one and even when her girlhood ended, however, spending an hour or two with a child was not the same as raising one.

She brought forth death not life.

She had killed more than she could even remember, some with her own hands and some with a whisper. What could she teach anyone of living in this world? How could anyone such as she raise little ones into good and honourable people?

 _Father fought in rebellions and slew countless men because of it_ , she reminded herself. _Was your war any less true? Will your babes be any less good?_

Good. 

Were any of them truly good? Arya was a killer, Bran told her of how Hodor became as simple as he was, Arya did not believe the ridiculous tale of how Littlefinger simply threw himself from the moon door after confessing to the murder of Robert Arryn and Jon ... well he was the best of them all. 

Sansa reached out and tried to smooth Arya’s hair which was in a tangle she would not enjoy undoing. Arya had forgotten to brush her hair out this morn. It was still in the braid she’d worn the night before but no one else had paid it any mind and it did not get that messy until she went searching for flowers. 

“You need not worry about any of this until your first blood.” Sansa tried to soothe her. 

“Ah. Well I awoke to blood stains on my sheets so worry I will.”

Sansa’s stopped trying to untangle her hair and her ocean blue eyes widened. 

“You – well ... I ... How do you feel?”

“My belly hurts some,” Arya admitted. “But I’m more used to blood than I should be.”

“These days we all are,” Sansa replied. “Yet the blood that seals your womanhood is a special kind.”

“It's never been more than a nuisance to the women I’ve known.” Arya said. “But mummers and killers and whores have different concerns than you would be used to.”

Sansa frowned and Arya could near taste the admonition on her tongue. There were things about her wild sister that still perturbed Sansa.

“They were good people Sansa or at the very least they were good to me.”

Sansa was none too pleased judging by her pursed lips and wrinkled nose.

“And this helps me not in the slightest.”

“You will be a good mother when the time comes.” Sansa said. “As long as you talk naught of whores and murderers. If all else fails ask yourself what our lady mother would do in your circumstance.”

Arya bit back the guilt she felt at the thought of Lady Catelyn to nod at her sister. She had not given her mother this much thought since her convalescence. 

“Come then,” Sansa said, standing gracefully. “I will walk with you to your rooms.”

Arya did not see what she needed in her chambers but she stood with her sister anyway.

Sansa smiled warmly at her and for a brief moment Arya felt as though it was her mother who looked down on her. 

That was it, she realised. It was easier not to think of her mother when her very image did not face her each day and when her Tully uncle did not roam the grounds of Winterfell reminding Arya of her wretched sin. 

Could a sin truly be a sin when it helped more people than it hurt? When it was committed in the name of justice and peace ... and love. It was done for love too.

As they approached her rooms Sansa stopped to talk to Lyn, a maidservant. 

“I told her to draw you a bath.” Sansa said as she fell back into step with Arya. “It will soothe your pain, I promise.”

Arya didn’t stop herself from letting out a groan. Sansa frowned at her.

“I’ve never met a highborn girl as averse to keeping clean like you.”

Arya hadn’t either. She thought on it for a while before triumphantly declaring, “Meera Reed!”

Sansa inclined her head, “Well the crannogmen are a strange sort I don’t think you should model yourself after that –”

“She’s kept Bran alive all these years,” Arya reminded her, victory turning to ire quickly as could be. “Remaining steadfast and true even as her own brother died and when abandoning one crippled boy and returning home would have served her well. She’s better than any other lady you know.”

Sansa looked mollified and Arya almost regretted speaking so sharply but she would not take it back. Meera and her father deserved nothing less than their complete support and respect.

They walked in silence until they were in front of her door. 

By the time they entered her chambers Lyn and Alla were already pouring hot water into her bath. 

Sansa busied herself among Arya’s things as Arya reluctantly undressed and unwound her hair. Her body felt stiffer than usual and her back ached as much as her tummy. 

“You may leave us.” Arya said as her bath was full. If she must take this bath she would not be scrubbed raw. 

Alla and Lyn curtseyed before swiftly exiting the room leaving her alone with Sansa. It was only when Sansa turned that she noticed that she was alone with Arya.

Things had not been this awkward between the two in days. 

Arya cleared her throat and eased herself into the hot water. Steam rose all around her and she sank into the perfumed water bit by bit until the ends of her hair were wet.

“Arya,” Sansa said finally. “I did not mean to –”

“Oh I know.” Arya interrupted. She did not want to hear an apology. She could not accept on the Reeds' behalf and she would never tell them of this. An apology would make little sense. 

Sansa looked hesitant and for the first time Arya saw her drop her mask of confidence and surety. She made to step away before returning quickly to drop a kiss atop Arya’s head and swiftly leaving the room.

Arya was still bemused as she heard the door close. She and Sansa did not often share affection. Mayhaps this was all as strange to Sansa as it was to Arya.

She and her sister were both creatures made of ice, secrets and mistrust but where Arya’s coldness was a dagger in the night, Sansa’s was a shield, useful in a fight, yes but they were not supposed to be at war with each other.

Arya sank into the water. Sansa was right in this regard, the heat of the bath permeated into her skin and left her feeling boneless. The foreign pain eased until she barely noticed it.

She washed the sticky blood from her thighs and wondered how she never realised how much of a luxury a warm bath could be. 

Arya dunked herself under the water and held her breath until she could no longer. When she resurfaced she heard a loud, continuous knocking on her door.

She frowned. “Enter!” 

Lyn walked in and the timid, dark-haired girl dropped into a curtsey. 

“My lady ... the ... your ... your cousin is without,” she said courteously. 

Arya understood the hesitation on Jon's title. He was her brother once and now he was her a cousin; he was a bastard once too with no titles or lands or even a name of his own to claim, then he flew higher and higher and became Lord Commander, then king, and he would soon be Prince of Dragonstone, yet though the queen had set her royal seal on parchment, the High Septon had yet to bless this decree. It would bewilder just about anybody. Most people just called him my lord or the upstart, dragonspawn when they thought no one could hear. 

“Tell Prince Jon that he may enter.” Arya said. She might as well grow used to the title. “But grab me a robe first.”

“Yes m'lady.” 

Lyn waited until Arya climbed out and wrapped her in a woollen robe and gave her some cloth to put in her smallclothes leaving her to see about that as the maidservant went to fetch Jon. She was still damp from the water and droplets fell from her hair but there was nary a thing that could be done about that.

She was already wrapped in her robe once more when she heard the light footfalls that signalled Jon’s presence. 

“Forgive me, you are indisposed,” came Jon’s low voice.

Arya turned towards her dark-haired cousin and chuckled. He averted his eyes and held his hands behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet as if he wanted to flee.

“I was beginning to believe it was nigh impossible to ruffle you.”

Jon threw her an exasperated look. “I would not have come if – your uncle had the right of it. I do not want people to speak of you as though you were – ”

“People talk. They always will, no matter what we do. Why should we worry about them?” Arya shrugged. “In any case there’s no need for you to linger by the door and avoid my gaze. No one will know that you visited me when I was in this state. Lyn would not betray me.”

The serving girl jumped at every loud noise, the leech lord and his son were not kind to her. She seemed to both fear and like Arya. Arya would just have to find a way to rid the girl of the fear.

“Are you well?” Jon asked finally looking at her with concern on his face. “You look as pale as a haunt.”

He was one to talk. The sun shone and he looked as though he had not seen the light of day in years.

“Womanly ailments.” Arya said looking him directly in his grey eyes.

To his credit Jon didn’t become flustered. “Is this ... the first for you?”

“Perceptive of you,” she said wryly.

Jon made a face. His grey eyes twinkled and Arya grinned; it was so good to see life in those greys.

The blue flowers by her bedside drew her gaze.

“I was very happy for the roses. I needed a reason to smile last night I confess,” she said. “And you gave me one.”

“I think I gave you a dozen.” Jon nodded at the vase of roses on her bedside making Arya smile.

Contentment breathed in the room like a gentle breeze and Arya let it sway her. She was finding these moments of peace lately and she wanted to hold on to them whenever she found them.

Arya walked towards Jon and threw her arms around his waist. Jon paused before wrapping his hands around her in return. 

They stayed like that for a moment.

It was quiet and warm.

“Do you insist on fighting in this impending battle?” he asked reluctantly after a while, speaking into her hair.

Arya’s eyebrows lifted. “I very much do and you know how well I do with being told no.”

“I assumed as much.” Jon’s tone was longsuffering. He took a deep breath before continuing. “There is to be a war council after we sup, only battle commanders. I told Daenerys that you would be joining; you are after all the leader of that army of yours though your soldiers march on four legs instead of two.”

Arya thought of that for a moment. She had lost half a hundred of her little wolves in the war but Nymeria was gathering more and more wolves into her pack as the days went. It would soon be near the amount it was as they roamed the riverlands, ravaging men and delivering justice. 

They would be useful in battle, though they would only give credence to the rumours of her monstrosity. Whispers of that sort surrounded Jon and Bran and Rickon and even Sansa too but none of them had ever rode into battle with an army of wolves behind them – beastling and warg they called her; ruler of monsters, the savage she-devil with a pack of hellbeasts at her command. 

But Arya could heed no gossip while war waged on. And there seemed to be mixed emotions at her method of fighting. Only ladies and lords sneered at her where many knights and soldiers and the smallfolk and even some of the wildlings adored her. It was not as though any highborn lord or lady ever had anything good to say about her before. 

Still –

“I thought you still harboured the absurd notion that I am some child in need of your protection?” 

“I could deny you and you will find a way on the battlefield anyway. You’ve always been a dreadful sneak Arya Underfoot.” Jon’s lips quirked up into a smile. “Or I could keep you close and watch over you.”

Arya stepped out if his embrace and frowned. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I thought you knew that.”

“I do know it,” Jon replied drawing her back into his arms. “Yet I will try to protect you anyway. That was my duty as your brother and it will be my duty as your husband and as someone who loves you your protection will always be at the forefront of my mind.”

Arya thawed. “And I will try to protect you just as devotedly.”

Jon smiled fondly at that and Arya wrapped her hands around him again. The air’s chill caused gooseprickles to arise on her skin and she pressed herself further into his warmth. She had missed being close to him. Jon always had a way of making her feel comforted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya’s mind is a hard place to be in. Jon doesn't even know how much comfort he gives her.
> 
> Thanks for reading. This story is winding down but I can't wait for the continuation to this series.


	10. Council

“The queen bitch is mad!” roared Harrold Arryn. 

“And dim too if the tales are to be believed,” said Ser Brynden.

Insults and curses of this sort were shouted across the Tower Room ever since Queen Daenerys divulged the contents of a letter sent from the Citadel. 

Cersei's plan of taking herself and her men to safety and setting wildfire loose on the city if the walls were breached was a dastardly one. It shocked even Arya who expected nothing good from that woman. 

It was said that the death of her last and youngest child unhinged her, but Arya remembered the queen as always being in control of herself. 

Things had clearly changed.

“What Cersei did to Lady Margaery was the highest insult and that thorn came around to prick her too.” Ser Garlan said, coldly. “But I would not call her stupid. There are many still at her command and there are many who have been killed or imprisoned at her word.”

“My sister always had a proclivity to madness but the wildfire is new,” said Tyrion dryly. “However, Ser Garlan speaks true; she does not have twenty starvelings at her command. She has the goldcloaks, the armies of my bannermen, the strength of the Lannister men-at-arms and the Kingsguard behind her. Underestimating her cunning would be unwise.”

“No one underestimates Lannister cunning.” The Blackfish snapped. “Your brother was a bloody fool but I put nothing behind him.”

Tyrion gave her great-uncle a cutting look before he smiled that terrible smile of his, the one he used when he wanted to terrify. “I would advise you to do the same with me my brave ser. I am a Lannister still.”

“I have not forgotten it Imp.” The Blackfish returned.

“Enough!” Daenerys said sharply, causing every head to turn in her direction. “Forgive me my lords but while the news of Cersei’s store of wildfire is troubling it only means we need new tactics.”

“What do you propose?” asked the princess of the Iron Islands. “Fleets will not do, not when she has wildlife on her side; the Imp has proven that.” The brazen lady flashed a smile at Tyrion. “And we will not be able to march if she plans to set King’s Landing ablaze.” 

“How do we enter then fair lady?” Lord Arryn asked, flashing her a charming smile.

Asha grinned and leaned towards him. “Oh there are many ways to _enter_ but I believe we were discussing a plan of action.” She was more forward than any lady Arya had ever met. Arya bit back a smile.

“I am sure that you two can find a room to continue this _discussion_ when we are done, but for now, we talk strategy.” Daenerys said, only just losing her composure.

“Ah they’re fun to tease but I don’t _discuss_ anything with men so pretty.” The kraken princess countered. 

Lord Arryn grinned and for the first time tonight the Blackfish seemed amused, but he got the conversation back in the proper direction saying, “Have we no plan then?”

“There are secret entries into the keep,” Tyrion said. “But my sister burned the one I know well.”

“The dungeon that holds the dragon bones will do.” Arya spoke for the first time for the night.

“Ah yes,” Tyrion stroked his chin. “I know of that one as well but my eyes were too occupied with the perfect pair of teats that stood before me to search out any exits.”

“Well I know it well.” Arya said easily. 

“How?” asked Ser Garlan, warily. “I’ve spent more time in King’s Landing than you and I know it not.”

Arya was sure he did his fair share of exploring in the city too but not for the same reasons as she, she’d wager.

“It was how I escaped the Red Keep else I would have been killed along the mêlée, or else be made to face Joffery's wrath and he had no love for me.” Arya replied. “I know it well.”

No one responded to that for a moment and Jon's hand squeezing her knee was all that told her that he was well aware that she was on the verge of losing her temper.

“You propose we sneak in like cravens then?” Garlan the Gallant asked.

“I propose we win and save as many innocent lives as possible while we do it.” Arya retorted.

“The lady speaks wisely.” Ser Brynden nodded. “Westeros has bled and bled, and while the blood of our enemies troubles me not, the common people need not be charred to secure our victory.”

“Then we need better men to gain us entry if we are to depend on dead of the night tactics.” Asha said. “My Iron Men are not inclined to silence or subtlety and I would wager few of your soldiers are either.”

“My Unsullied can be very stealthy.” Daenerys ventured. “And the Lord of Starfall, the Sword of the Morning, will be here within a week or two. The journey from the riverlands to the North is a perilous one and he has been travelling for weeks.”

“Ned is coming?” Arya asked, surprised. Several eyes turned to her and she coloured. 

Jon was looking at her queerly. He would not know about Ned. Arya did not talk much of her time in the riverlands, even to him. 

“Lord Dayne, I mean,” Arya corrected. “He comes to fight?”

She had not seen him in so long. Ned was not there when she had come upon the Brotherhood once more. He had left, Gendry told her. Lord Beric died and Ned did not approve of her mother’s particular brand of justice. 

She understood why he left as much as she understood the others stayed. He was different from Gendry who was strong, bullheaded and who had as much anger in him as she did. Ned was kind and courteous. He was ever the fighter but she could not imagine him as a battle commander.

He was Sword of the Morning now though. That title was not easily given. She wondered what he did to earn it. He was no knight when she had seen him last. When did that change?

“Yes.” Daenerys confirmed. “Lord Dayne comes with some outlaws pledging their service and seeking pardons. Princess Arianne offers his name to lead her armies.”

“She barely offers any armies.” Asha Greyjoy scoffed. “Or ships.”

“Yet we are grateful for whatever help she is able to give us.” Jon said, ignoring Asha's glare and the way she thumbed the flat of her axe. “By any chance is this band of outlaws the same that walked the riverlands.”

“That ravaged the riverlands you mean?” Brynden Tully said, brusquely.

“Yes.” Jon replied. “That too.”

“The Brotherhood Without Banners are indeed the band of men approaching.” Tyrion said as Asha and Garlan's faces relaxed into understanding. Only Lord Arryn seemed perplexed.

“There is a large woman that travels in their company,” the queen said. “Pledging to serve ... to serve...”

“To serve you, Your Grace?” Jon asked.

“To serve House Stark.” Daenerys replied with some reluctance. 

Several brows rose at that, Arya’s included. Those willing to serve her family over the years were far and few. Declaring for House Stark would leave you swinging on a gibbet until very recently. 

“What does one have to do with the other?” Lord Harrold asked. “The Unsullied I understand but the Brotherhood? Shorten their necks and be done with it.”

Ser Brynden gave him an exasperated look but Arya understood his ignorance. The Vale had stayed well away from the blood and carnage that had flooded Westeros for years now. He was not even here for the War for Dawn. He may have fought in the training yard and in tourneys but never in war. The Brotherhood without Banners would be nothing but a tale he’d heard.

“They understand stealth Lord Arryn and there are many that are loyal to them.” Arya explained. “It’s part of why no one’s been able to capture them.”

“We’ll need that loyalty, undeserved as it is, to get past the riverlands.” Ser Brynden said. “Lions run unrestrained through those lands.”

“My good-uncle is a fool and a craven who will hide behind the walls of Riverrun until the food is done if he could.” Tyrion said. “My aunt is another matter. Lady Genna is as clever as they come. She was raised with my father and has sway over Emmon Frey.”

“He cowers at the sound of her voice you mean to say?” the Blackfish said disdainfully.

“A fearsome woman,” Tyrion agreed. “And equally delightful.”

“Will she see reason if you try to set terms with her?” Daenerys asked. “There are other ways to gain passage through the Twins but my dragons are a last resort. Princess Arya has the right of it, as many innocent lives as possible must be spared.”

“My nephew will be pleased to hear that,” the Blackfish allowed. “When he is put back in his rightful seat the safety and wellbeing of his people will be of the utmost importance to him.”

“Lady Genna knows how Lord Tywin died,” Tyrion said delicately. “It will not be easy though it may be possible.”

“Then I am grateful that I chose a Hand capable of handling difficult tasks such as these.” Daenerys replied.

“As it pleases you, Your Grace.” Tyrion replied.

“Will the princess be able to control those monsters of hers in battle,” Ser Garlan asked looking at Arya and smiling slightly. “I mean no insult my lady, but I imagine it will be difficult to control so many beasts.”

“Not for me.” Arya smiled, wickedly. It answered the question he was really asking without answering it at all.

“Princess Arya will control her beasts as I will mine,” Daenerys said with a smile. “I hope there is no question of that ser.”

“Of course not, Your Grace.” Ser Garlan said abashedly.

Daenerys rubbed her eyes. “The hour of the wolf grows near. We should adjourn for the night and gather again once you have all talked to your lords.” 

The silver moon waned outside the window as the tower slowly emptied; the sky was almost black and peppered with white diamonds. It was growing late. 

Yet the night was not over. 

“Princess Arya, you stay.” Daenerys said, looking wary as she slumped in her seat.

Jon did not move from where he sat next to her nor did Tyrion stand from his place next to the queen.

“You know Lord Dayne?” 

Of course the queen noticed her slip of the tongue. Arya did not make mistakes like that so easily. 

“I know him some,” Arya said, her tone even. “He was Lord Beric's squire and I travelled with the Brotherhood for a while.”

“You travelled with a group of outlaws?” Tyrion asked, disbelievingly.

Arya ground her teeth together. “I am not the only person in this room to befriend murderers and barbarians.”

“No. You are not.” Daenerys conceded before Tyrion could reply. “What is his nature?”

“He is courteous, honourable, he was fair with a sword but unblooded last I saw him.” Arya said. “That must have changed since then.”

Jon was looking at her intently, trying to gauge her reaction she guessed.

“True.” Tyrion said thoughtfully. “There hasn’t been a Sword of the Morning since Arthur Dayne and none since 80 years before him.”

“And the rest of that band?” Daenerys asked. “I will pardon them if we can use them but I need to know what sort they are first.”

“They gave my father and sister more than some trouble.” Tyrion offered. “The Blackfish was right. People were unnaturally loyal to them.”

“The smallfolk were loyal to them because they were the only ones who brought about justice when highlords trampled over them like they were nothing but ants.” Arya snapped out.

Tyrion and Daenerys looked shocked but Jon took her reaction in stride. He had a lifetime to get used to her outbursts she supposed whereas the queen and her Hand had mostly seen her as collected and calculated in her speech.

She was not even fond of the Brotherhood’s faulty brand of justice but at least they tried. No one in Winterfell was there. They did not know what it was like.

“They most like only want to pledge their service to you because they believe you will be a just ruler and that has not been a common thing since the war began.”

Daenerys nodded slowly. “Then I have much to think of.”

“They will be here soon so you do not have much time to think.” Jon Snow said.

“I thank you for the advice nephew,” Daenerys replied, a warning in her voice.

Tyrion grinned at them. “I love family spats.”

“Don’t jest,” said the silver queen. “I – well I thought the truly difficult war was over.”

Tyrion's eyes softened but Jon replied before the Imp could, “I’m afraid all wars are difficult Aunt Daenerys.”

“I have come to learn that,” she replied.

“The good thing however is, one way or another, all wars end.” Tyrion said.

“I wish I could say the same about this night.” Arya said blithely.

Even Daenerys smiled at that.

“I will escort my little sister to her rooms.” Jon said. Arya smiled. And she thought he would never call her little sister again.

“And my Lord Hand will escort me to mine own.”

The moonlight caught in the queen’s short, silver hair as she stood and she looked beautiful. Between Sansa and Daenerys it was as if Arya was destined to be surrounded by women more exquisite than she could ever be. 

Arya felt a spike of bitterness. It seemed unfair to saddle Jon with a wife as unimpressive as she when women like Daenerys lived. The silver queen was strong-willed and fierce but still a beauty, still a lady. Jon never seemed to notice Arya’s inadequacies but she wondered if he felt like he could do better than her? 

When she and Jon arrived at Dragonstone their people would not easily accept them. They would stomach them of course as no one with good sense would want to anger the mother of dragons, but a bastard lord and his unwomanly lady, they would drink from that cup with sour faces and barely veiled contempt. If she were more like Sansa like her lady mother wished it would have been easier. Men could accept a gentle lady who did not see herself as equal to them, who did not bear arms, or sit in war councils or favour breeches and riding leathers over gowns.

She swallowed those thoughts as she stood and tried not to choke on them.

She and Jon walked from the tower to the yard in silence as Arya pondered these thoughts.

It wasn’t until they neared her rooms that he spoke. 

“This Lord Dayne?” Jon asked, his tone stiff. “He did not act untoward with you did he?” 

 She was surprised at the question and even more surprised to see the anger and fear in his eyes.

Arya took his gloved hand tentatively in hers, the burned one. “He was nice to me is. That wasn’t easy to find over the years.”

Jon didn’t look any more pleased but his eyes gentled. “The thought of you wandering the riverlands with a bunch of hardened men is not a happy thought for me.”

“You’ve always trusted Harwin.” Arya reminded him. “He looked out for me. And Gendry tried to protect me too. I admit I did not make it easy for them.”

“That I can believe you wilful girl.” 

She laughed quietly and glanced up at him. There was a smile in his eyes.

“Sleep well,” he pressed his lips against her forehead and kept it there for a moment. She felt the puff of his cold breath as he pulled away. It made her shiver.

She looked into his dark, grey eyes and he held her gaze before smiling. 

“You sleep well too,” she said softly. “Or at least try to sleep at all.”

“I promise.” Jon said, squeezing her hand.

She waited outside her door for a moment after he walked away before she entered her rooms. 

Her soft featherbed beckoned to her and she welcomed the call. Her head barely touched her pillow before her eyes closed and her breathing evened.

The heady scent of dirt and blood still invaded her nostrils as she woke to the sound of a raven's caw.

Nymeria was getting impatient. She did not even eat whilst Arya ran in her body. Nymeria was like Arya, used to roaming. She had not stayed in one place for years and now she was confined. Arya would have to do something about that.

The sky was still dark and she felt as though someone poured sand in her eyes while she slept. She did not sleep for very long that much was clear.

She arose anyway, performed her morning ablutions, replaced the bloody cloth between her legs with clean ones and put a clean shift on. She could sleep for a few more hours.

The sound of heavy nails loudly dragging its way down wood interrupted that thought. _Nymeria_!

Arya bolted open her door to find three pairs of eyes staring up at her. 

“What are you doing awake at this hour?” she asked.

“I wanted to take a walk – well, a stroll with you.” Bran smiled. “I made certain you were awake before I called upon you.”

The raven. She shook her head.

Arya grabbed her woollen robe from a chair near the door and tied it around herself before turning back to her auburn haired brother.

“Let’s ... stroll then.”

The wheeled contraption Bran sat upon seemed to help him move easily. She had seen it earlier at supper and she found it interesting. The Imp was surely talented.

Nymeria and Summer fell into step next to each other as their human counterparts slowly walked.

The walk was peaceful until their wolves started to whine. Nymeria nipped Summer's ear and her wolf brother growled. Soon enough they were rolling around on the floor huffing and growling as their owners looked on in amusement.

“Nymeria!” Arya called before either wolf spilled blood and their play became something more. “Go hunt if you need to.”

Summer looked to Bran and padded over to his feet. Bran smiled as he scratched his head. 

“Return when the hunt is done.” Bran said like he was talking to a friend and not a direwolf.

Arya nodded at Nymeria and both wolves bounded off into the woods.

Bran and she roamed idly for a while just talking about nothing important. It was only when she smelt the musky rot of dead leaves that she realised that they had a destination in mind, even unknowingly.

“Mother never liked coming to this place,” Bran said, a sad smile upon his lips. “I think she hated it.”

Arya smiled weakly. “What do you think she would say now, to know that we both discarded her gods for these ones?”

Bran rolled towards the heart tree and Arya sat on the ground next to him.

“There is power in the old gods, in this godswood.” Bran said, his eyes on the weirwood tree. “A power that I never felt in a sept.”

“Yes.” Arya agreed, biting her lip and stifling a yawn. “But she would not have been happy to know.”

“No.” Bran said. “She wouldn’t have.”

Silence fell over them, a silence so peaceful that she was loath to break it with horrid words.

“I killed her,” Arya whispered so softly she was not sure that Bran heard her words. She shivered just to hear them aloud or perhaps it was the night’s chill and her thin shift.

“I know.” Bran said after a long pause.

That shocked her. He never said or even implied. 

“She was – I didn’t – I had to,” she tried to defend herself. “She was ... horrible. A monster.”

That didn’t sound right. Who would believe that of her lady mother? She would not have believed it herself had she not seen it with her own eyes.

Bran looked at her with eyes that seemed as old and as knowing as the red eyes of the weirwood tree. Not much made her nervous. At the moment, those eyes did.

“Why didn’t you – you don’t hate me for it do you?” He did not act like he did but she had to ask.

“Never. Don’t be stupid. Mother wasn’t,” Bran's face was pained and he struggled to continue. “That was not Mother. Nothing of her was left.”

“Nothing good.” Arya couldn’t stop herself from yawning this time. “But I think the anger and vengeance was her.”

“But without her grace and compassion and wisdom to temper it,” Bran shook his head. “No. It was not her. If all that was good of you was gone and only the bad remained, the things you would do. I saw it. I saw her. That is how I understand why you did what you did.”

“You saw what she became?” Arya asked. The extent of Bran's power surprised even her. “Did you tell anyone?”

“No one.” Bran said solemnly. “Her memory need not be tarnished. No one but us knows who the hangwoman truly was.”

“Us and the Brotherhood.” Arya said. “That is good. No one will know who she was and how she was stopped.”

Bran made a funny sound in his throat which made Arya look at him questioningly.

“I think you should tell Jon.”

“I can’t tell Jon, you stupid,” Arya cried out. She leaned back against the bark of the heart tree and sighed. “It’s bad enough that he’s going to be stuck with me as a wife, he cannot know all that I’ve done.”

Bran looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not,” she gestured at herself helplessly. “I’m no beauty and no lady. I’ll embarrass him enough,” she waved her hand at her brother's scoff.  “He won’t care about all that, I know, but I can’t stand the thought of disappointing him with this.”

“You’re wrong, sister.” Bran shook his head.

Arya looked at him disbelief writ across her face. “Do you truly think all will be well if he discovers my secret?”

“You’re wrong about it all,” Bran shook his head.  “Our brother has done things that would shame him to say aloud too.”

Arya looked at him and frowned. “That was different.”

“Perhaps it was,” Bran agreed. “And I love him no less than I love you. But none of us are perfect.”

She knew Jon wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t a fool. Jon had broken his vows more than once, but it was not without reason. 

You never asked for the black singer’s reasons before poking him full of holes, she thought to herself. She drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest.

“Well everything else is true.” Arya said, stubbornly.

“You are not a gentle lady in the way that mother was, that Sansa is, but you will always be a lady. A lovely one at that.”

Arya barked out a laugh. “You are not serious.”

“You’re as pretty as Aunt Lyanna.” 

Father had told her that she looked like her dead aunt once, her aunt whose beauty set forth a war.

“Father said that I look like her.” Arya said reluctantly.

“He did not lie.” Bran said. “I saw her a few times. The first time I nearly ran to her, I was so sure it was you.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Arya countered. 

“You're not this dense Arya. You notice everything, don’t you notice the way men look at you as you walk past. What is this really about?”

“Men are stupid. They will look at any woman with teats and stick their cock in anything that's wet,” she rolled her eyes. “No matter what they look like. I don’t care who looks at me.”

Bran was the soul of patience as he looked at her with his deep, blue eyes, waiting for her to continue. Even so it took her a moment.

“I'm not saying that being pretty and ladylike are important to me,” And it wasn’t. There were more important things. “But even you must admit that it would be easier for people to accept him if I weren’t – well, me.”

“That is stupid. You are clever and you care for people highborn and low alike, like any good ruler should.” Bran said firmly. “You will make him happy and you will make him a better ruler and a better prince.”

Perhaps stubbornness was a Stark trait. She, Jon, Rickon, Bran, they seemed to have it in spades.

She only hoped that he proved right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned is still called "Lord" Dayne because he may also be a knight but the title of "lord" is a higher one.
> 
> Bran and Arya’s conversation went in a different way than I expected but it worked out better than the original plan.


	11. Arrival

Arya was scrubbed and cleaned and shoved into a dress of green velvet and gold thread. Her hair was brushed, though thankfully left unbound, and soft slippers were placed on her feet. She was not even allowed a blade upon her, not that she didn’t have five hidden on her anyway, three finger knives in her velvet sleeves and a dagger strapped to each thigh. Would that she endured such torment with grace but she glowered and remained sullen the entire time she was bathed and dressed.

Ned and his party were arriving within the hour and she was to be gracious and courteous and greet them along with everyone else like a proper princess. Never mind that they had seen her starved and miserable with lice in her tangled hair, callused hands and feet, torn and dirty clothes and a sword on her back. Never mind that she’d broken Lem's nose, and talked of sword fighting with Ned and tumbled on the dirty ground with Gendry. They would see through this mummer's show in an instant but Sansa had bid her to behave herself and she did not want to argue so she stood beside her sister along with the royal party, and Bran, and Jon and little Rickon who was also warned to be on his best behaviour. It contented her to know that she was not the only one displeased about the display.

The queen stood next to her Hand and her little scribe. Grey Worm stood behind her and another of her personal guard and the men and women of Winterfell were spread across the yard, all of them waiting.

The sound of horses galloping came closer and she could see the group approaching. There was a muscled boy with yellow hair and bronze skin atop a black steed at the helm as the party rode past the gates of Winterfell. 

It was Ned! He looked so much older. Less like the timid boy who was uncomfortable to tell her of his dead aunt and the man who broke her heart and more like what a knight should look like.

There were nigh a hundred mounted men behind him and a dozen more on feet. More mouths. More than they expected. Some would have to join the hunting parties until they marched. There were no rooms left for any of them. They would have to make do with straw to sleep on, tents for shelter and hot meals each day. It was more than most had.

Bran grinned when he spotted Harwin amongst the group and even Sansa looked pleased though they kept their composure.

“Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall and Sword of the Morning, welcome to Winterfell.” Bran declared when Ned was close enough to hear.

“I thank you Prince Brandon.” Ned replied loudly.

He dropped to one knee before the queen the moment he dismounted and he laid his greatsword before her. Dawn.

“Queen Daenerys Targaryen I pledge to you my life and my sword. I ask that you grant me the honour of serving as one of your seven and I will be a protector leal and true.” 

It sounded like a rehearsed request but he asked it confidently enough.

“Rise Ser Edric.” Daenerys said. “Your uncle served my kingly father to his last breath and I truly believe that this will be a time when blood tells. I accept. You may serve as a member of my queensguard.”

Arya looked at the scene before her and hoped that Ned would prove to be a good knight and true. She had seen too many of the false kind. 

She tore her eyes away from the silver queen and her golden knight to view his party. She saw a few familiar faces looking on as Ned bowed before Daenerys. There were also many men she had never before seen. She kept searching until she spotted the face she most wanted to see. And there he was! Heavy black hair and a shaggy beard, he was ragged and sweaty with stormy blue eyes looking just at her. She made to step towards him when another familiar visage caught her eye and stopped blood her cold.

No. It couldn’t be. He was dead. He had to be. She left him aside that river to die. Slowly and painfully. A part of her regretted it, yes, but that did not mean she wanted him to live. 

She took a step backwards and another. Sansa sent her a strange look, as did Bran and she stilled. Calm as still waters. Calm as still waters. She would be calm. She would not run away. She did not fear him. No. The Hound was nothing to fear. She let him smile his ugly smile. He did not see her yet, thank the gods. Arya did not want to seen by him. Not now. The tales he could tell. The anger he must have for her. She seethed. He should be dead: dead, dead, dead. 

Arya kept her face blank and she stood next to her family as Daenerys welcomed the Brotherhood but it was simply too much. She stepped away and away paying no mind to any of the confused looks of disapproval that followed her. 

Ned followed her too to her surprise. She hadn’t gone far, just away from Sandor Clegane's line of sight.

“My lady,” he touched her arm with concern. “He promised – the Hound – that he did you no harm. If he lied–”

She could say that he did, that he beat her or hurt her. Clegane was not exactly gentle with her. But she could not lie, not about this. It would not be true justice for him to be punished for a false crime. She was a direwolf, fierce and strong; and this was her home. She did not need to rely on lies to taste the blood of her enemies hot on her tongue. 

“It was just a shock,” she said, hastily adding. “my lord. I thought him dead.”

“So did we.” Ned smiled.

 “You’re tall,” she said, stupidly after too long a silence.

“You too my lady.” Ned said. 

She wasn’t really. Arya was as small as the dragon queen but she was taller than she was last he’d seen her. 

Ned glanced behind him and his cheeks darkened. “We should return my lady.” He dropped his hand from her arm.

When Arya looked towards her family only Jon's eyes were on them and those grey eyes were ice and steel. She frowned.  She knew it was not proper of her to leave in that manner but he had never cared about her propriety before. It seemed strange for him to care now. 

Arya headed back to her family with Ned trailing close behind her. He strode towards the dragon queen at her beckon and Arya turned to her cousin but Jon was in deep conversation with Harwin, Ghost sitting patiently at his feet, and he did not even glance in her direction. Bran who was a part of their conversation saw it fit to at least smile at her and even Ghost walked over to her and nudged her hand with his snout. She patted the white wolf's head and he huffed before returning to Jon’s feet. It was too deliberate an action, Jon ignoring her, and it made her want to punch his face. Fine. If he wanted to be a fool then he could be one. It made no matter to her. Sansa was talking to a big, blonde man in mail so she started towards Gendry.

He was standing off to the side and smiled bashfully when he noticed her walking towards him.

His hair was still shaggy and his beard unshaved. She could not imagine how he could be the bastard son of the old king. King Robert was fat, always red-faced with wine and he puffed with every step. Gendry was the opposite, large but strong and muscled, handsome too. 

It was good to see him again.

Arya hugged him for a brief moment before she remembered herself. She was not the same girl of many names who travelled with him years ago. She stepped away quickly and cleared her throat, suddenly feeling stupid. The colour that sat high on Gendry's cheeks spoke of his own embarrassment.

“I am sure you did not think to see me again.” Arya said ruefully.

 “You keep running off m'lady.”

“You keep refusing to believe that I can handle myself.” Arya shot back.

“Ah we know it now,” Tom chortled coming up behind her and clasping a hand on her shoulder. “A pack of wolves listens to your every command I hear. There is a song in that I believe.”

“I see you haven’t changed.” Arya replied.

“He hasn’t.” Gendry said with that mulish glare that frequented his face. 

Arya looked at Gendry in question.

“He’s still angry that I bedded his friend.” Tom shrugged unrepentant. “Jeyne was willing so I don’t see the reason for the fuss.”

“No girl smarter than spit should go near you less they want a bastard in their belly.” Gendry retorted.

“I do hope you plan to care for this child unlike all the others.” Arya said seriously.

“He’d better.” Gendry grumbled causing Tom to glare at them both. 

Arya was about to herd them into the kitchens to get them something to eat when a blur of grey rushed to her feet. 

Nymeria looked at the men before her curiously when Arya bent to say to her. “This is Gendry and Tom. We like them.”

Tom looked at her apprehensively. “I see you’ve been in trouble.”

Nymeria was sniffing the hand Gendry cautiously held out for her. People were always hesitant around her wolf. She had as much a reputation as Arya.

“She’s a direwolf,” Arya said.

“We know.” Tom said. “She wasn’t exactly unheard of south of here.”

Arya had not forgotten. Nymeria ravaged the riverlands with her pack. Arya had seen it with her own eyes, well with her wolf's eyes. They would know her wolf well. She felt an odd spike of pride. She did not want people to fear _her_  more than ought but a healthy fear of her direwolf would do just fine.

The sound of pebble crunching below wooden wheels told her that her brother was nearing. She turned to see his smiling face rolling towards them.

As he neared both Tom and Gendry looked at Bran sitting in his chair with Summer at his side and there was some pity in their eyes. He pretended not to notice but Arya wondered how he could possibly stand it. Bran had more power running through his body and more skill than most anyone and they all still pitied him. She would have loathed it but Bran handled it with a grace she did not possess.

 “Bran! This is Gendry Waters and Tom of Sevenstrings.” Arya said. “They made some effort to try to keep me safe once.”

“She did not make it easy m'lord.” Gendry said. 

Tom laughed at that and even Gendry smiled. It was no lie, however, Arya still rolled her eyes at their mirth. 

“I can believe that.” Bran replied and even he seemed amused. “Arya, forgive my interruption but you need to speak with Maester Sam. There are a few injured in Lord Dayne's party who will need his care. And the cooks need to know the size of the party.”

“Very well, Bran.” Arya strode next to him. “I will see you both at supper I hope, in the hall?”

Gendry grinned. She doubted they ate well on their journey north and she nodded at them before walking with her brother in the yard, Nymeria trotting after her.

“If you wish to make our brother more wroth then by all means, continue.” Bran said after a moment.

Arya glanced at Jon who had his hands on Rickon’s shoulder and saw that Bran wasn’t wrong. His grey eyes were hard and cold yet they weren’t directed at her. For some reason it was Gendry who was his focus. 

“He’s jealous.” Bran said following the line of her eyes.

That was absurd. Arya could not see why he would be. She’s always had friends. He was never jealous of it before. Did the years make all men strange or was it just her brother? 

“Of what? I just wanted to talk to them. I have not seen them in so long,” she said, plaintively. _I just wanted to warn them to keep quiet._  Though she hadn’t the chance yet.

Bran seemed to read her thoughts. “You can beg or threaten or swear them to secrecy but what will pass when one of them is in their cups?”

She frowned. Tom and Anguy liked the drink, Harwin indulged too, even Gendry did on occasion. Gendry left her once but would he betray her? She could not believe that yet … yet she trusted so few people. Could she trust them? All of them? The Hound was a part of their retinue. What did that say of who they’d become?

Bran smiled at her softly before rolling towards Rickon who was laughing loudly with Shaggydog. He was a true wolf that boy.

Arya looked around the yard and to her dismay she saw her sister talking to the big brute, Clegane. She could not see Sansa’s face but the Hound’s burnt face was bent to hers and it made Arya's pulse throbb. A loud growl came from the wolf next to her and Arya felt it like a chill running through her body. Arya hated the man but even she could not see why she was so unsettled by him talking to Sansa 

He was with Sansa in King's Landing and he claimed to have saved her from being raped. Sansa sang to him he said and – she didn’t. He stole that song! He admitted that, weak and in pain. He wanted to rape her! Arya remembered him saying that. He wanted to rape and kill her. And she felt an anger rise up in her like smoke from a chimney. Arya wanted to march over there run her dagger through him.

“Princess Arya,” a deep, feminine voice made her spin around. “It is good to see you. You look different than I expected.”

A large woman in tattered mail came up to her. The woman noticed Nymeria’s defensive stance and bared teeth and kept a safe distance. Arya looked at her, trying to figure out if she knew her from somewhere. She had straw blonde hair and startlingly beautiful, blue eyes. Not much else about her could be said to be beautiful. 

Arya had to shake the thoughts of the Hound hurting her sister from her mind to nod at the woman. They were surrounded by many men with swords. He could not hurt Sansa now. “Do I know you?” she asked suspiciously. It was only upon a closer look did she realise that this was the man – _woman_  that Sansa was speaking with.

“I am Brienne of Tarth, my lady. I served your mother,” the woman said. “I was her sworn sword.”

That gave Arya pause. She was a woman and she had a sword on her hip. With the way she held herself Arya could see that she may well know how to use that sword. Lady Catelyn always fussed and scolded when she caught Arya playing stick swords with Bran. Would she have really let this Brienne pledge herself to her?

“Well you did a bloody poor job of it.” Arya said quietly. “She was killed.” _Twice she was killed. And where were you?_   A growl rose from her throat, or perhaps it came from her direwolf. 

“I am sorry for all you have lost,” Brienne bowed her head. “She sent me from her side to find you and your sister. She never believed you to be dead. I would have returned you to her if it were in my power, my lady, but things did not end in the way your mother and I had hoped.”

“No. I do not think anything ended for her in the way she hoped.”

“Forgive me my lady.” Brienne said sadly. 

“When did you get that?” Arya asked, pointing at the poorly healed gash on her cheek.

“A fight against some Bloody Mummers, Rorge and Biter and –”

Arya gasped and Brienne stepped to her, concern in her eyes. “Are you well my lady?”

“Did you kill them?” Arya asked sinking her hand in the fur behind Nymeria's ear, though whether it was to comfort her wolf or herself was anyone’s guess.

“My lady?”

“Did you kill them?” she repeated with more force.

“I got Rorge and it was Gendry who killed Biter. Why –” suspicion crept into her blue eyes. “Did you know them?”

“I knew a great many people.” Arya replied. “Do you plan on staying in Winterfell?”

Daenerys did say that a woman travelling with the Brotherhood wanted to pledge herself to their house. Lady Brienne looked as though she wished to protest the shift of topic but she answered easily enough, “I plan to help your queen regain her throne. If I die in my effort, I die but if I don’t; I swore to Lady Stark that I would return her daughters to her and I failed. I will not fail her fruit. Princess Sansa has already agreed to accept my sword. If you will allow me my lady I would offer my sword to you as well if I return from battle victorious.”

Arya shook her head. “You will do well in Sansa’s service and I hope you protect her well but if we return from battle with our lives I will need no sword but my own.”

“My lady,” Brienne of Tarth persisted. “I must say, my maester always said that a woman’s heart is a gentle one and you do not have size on your side as I do. I am sure you are able but taking the life of a man is not the same as taking the life of a beast. Creatures of ice and sorcery do not bleed.”

Arya would have laughed if she could. The lady was brave and her concern was as touching as it was unneeded. 

“I can take care of myself.” Arya said and she inclined her head before walking off leaving the Lady of Tarth behind.

The day was still new and Arya had much to do. She had lost sight of Sansa, she had gone off somewhere whilst Arya spoke with Brienne of Tarth. And Bran was nowhere to be seen. He had duties to see to, she knew but Arya thought more on his warning. It was true that tongues grew looser when wetted and for any of her family to hear of her mother’s final fate from anyone else ...

She spotted Jon near the gates sullenly listening to something Tyrion was saying and Arya started in their direction.

“Forgive the intrusion Lord Tyrion, but I need to speak with my cousin.” Arya said with as much courtesy as she could muster.

“Well I am the last person to come between young lovers.” Tyrion said with a smile that seemed knowing. 

Arya watched him as he hobbled away. “What is he on about?”

“He has many foolish notions and they all seem to amuse him.” Jon replied dismissively. “What did you need?”

He no longer seemed vexed. The question held more concern in it than anything else. His mercurial mood confused her but she let it be for the moment. 

“I want to talk to you about something,” she was being cagey but she couldn’t let it seem too urgent but neither could it seem a piddling nothing. “just the two of us.”

It seemed to have the desired effect for Jon’s face crinkled into curiosity. 

“I have to help our ... guests settle,” he said. “But perhaps we can go riding before the sun sets, through the wolfswood? That will give us privacy enough.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “That is a great idea.”

That gave her some time to think of what to say and she had duties of her own. She only hoped that this wouldn’t change anything between them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright well I have to split this chapter in two. Arya knew too many people in this group for her to only interact with one. 
> 
> Jon's jealousy was amusing to write and Tyrion finds it as funny as I do but I think we all get a little (a lot) irrational when we have feelings we don't understand the extent of.


	12. Woods

Hella had come back with the hunting party a while ago and she along with Myra were barking orders at underlings. Ullyna, for once, was quiet as she chopped onions and carrots. Arya had told them of the size of Ned's party hours ago and the strained expression on Myra's round face spoke to how happy she would have been to be out killing things with a spear. Or a crossbow. Myra looked like she knew what to do with a crossbow.

Arya left them to it. She only stopped by to see if they needed help – sometimes she would help in the kitchen when it was needed but she feared that this time she would only be in the way.

Arya had already changed into her riding leathers, a grey, hooded cloak and a pair of old, weather-worn boots. She was more comfortable dressed like this and less uneasy with her sword on her hip.

She talked to the half-maester, Samwell Tarly, earlier. There were a few men from Ser Edric's party convalesced with the bloody flux and some wounded. Still, he brought more able men than weak or wounded starvelings and with the Brotherhood’s connections they would need only a few dozen of the outlaws to get even an army as vast as theirs through the riverlands undetected. And Maester Samwell had more than enough of the sick and the slowly healing to take care of. 

Winterfell was burst to the seams with people. Arya did not think the castle had ever seen so many faces, not even during the winters past. It made it that much harder to find who she was looking for. She grimaced as she walked past large groups of people, careful not to bump into anyone as her eyes searched and searched for a familiar face.

Arya had the misfortune of seeing that beautiful face standing next to a burned one. She strode towards them and Sansa smiled to see her. 

Sansa’s long, auburn hair was bound in thick, complicated braids and her immaculate gown was the red and blue of their mother’s house. She looked as sweet as the Maiden herself standing next to the Hound with his hard eyes, dirty hair and battered mail. 

“Shouldn’t you be dead?” Arya asked Clegane and the weak smile fell from Sansa’s lips. 

“Did the she-wolf grieve for the dog?” he asked with a half smile. “Or were you happy to think I was dead?”

“I was glad to hear it,” she shot back. It was only half a lie. “If the gods were good you would be in the belly of a wolf.”

“The gods aren’t good. They knew I had more killing left to do,” the Hound snarled. 

Sansa looked at him sharply and there was some fear in her eyes but though he was cruel and half a giant, he did not scare Arya.

“If you think to hurt anyone from my House I will stop you and I will make certain you do not enjoy it.” Arya said, darkly.  

“Arya!” Sansa cried out, scandalised, before turning to the Hound. “She did not mean it. She is ever so exhausted with all our guests. She does not know what she is saying,” she said apologetically. 

As much as things had changed between them there would always be a part of Arya that would never understand her sister. As far as Arya could see, her threat was well earned and here was Sansa, apologising for it.

Sandor Clegane smirked and the burned side of his face twisted something ugly, “Don’t bother, little bird. She'll have me done in before the day ends if I know her.”

“Just so,” she replied. 

Her hand twitched to her side where Dark Sister sat and his eyes caught the movement. She would not use it, she knew that, but there was no need for him to know. 

“Bugger you then wolf girl. I’m still stronger than you have ever dreamt.” 

“Strength is not all.” Arya retorted. 

The pinched look on Sansa’s face told Arya how little Sansa was prepared for the Hound's reappearance or for the animosity they shared. 

“You two will stop this,” Sansa said, her voice was soft yet firm. She turned to the Hound. “Pray give me a moment alone with my sister.”

The Hound’s burned face twisted into a scowl but he nodded before he walked off. 

Sansa turned her gaze on Arya, “Now would you tell me what that was about?”

Arya scowled at her sister. She didn’t have to sound so condescending. “Nothing to do with you.”

“It does! Sandor Clegane promised me his sword if he survives battle. My lord husband already loathes the sight of him and now you.” Sansa said firmly. “Is it about that ... Michael boy? He is long dead Arya.”

_Mychah_. His name was Mycah. Her friend. Arya did not remember much of the butcher’s boy but she remembered that he did no wrong. He should not have been killed and never so cruelly. Sandor Clegane spoke of mercy but nothing about Mycah's death was merciful. She thought of the Hound by that river, weak, bleeding and pleading for death and she hoped he suffered. She hope he suffered like Mycah did before someone found him and saved his pitiful life. 

“His name was Mycah.” Arya said, coldly. “And it was not so long ago.”

“Whatever he did he did at Joffery's bidding.” Sansa replied, adamant. “He thought Joffery to be the son of his Sire. He had no choice.”

“Do you really think he did not enjoy it? He had a choice. He could have refused an order from the princeling but he didn’t.” Arya countered and before Sansa could reply she added, “He said he wanted to fuck you bloody and rip your heart from your chest. Joffery did not order him to want that.”

Something flickered in those blue eyes but she held Arya’s gaze. “Whatever differences you have with him, I expect you to solve them on your own. I have enough to deal with without this.”

“I would not bet on it.” Arya said. She turned from Sansa and walked off. 

She tried to temper the storm that raged inside her but that was never an easy thing for her to do, not when she was a child and not now.

Why couldn’t Sansa just be content with Brienne or add someone else to her personal guard, someone with real honour? _Enough to deal with indeed._ Arya herself had much to deal with. She was to be wed soon and she was beginning to understand Bran's desire for her honesty as the day went on. Even if her secret was never revealed, was keeping it really the best option? Her lord father kept a secret from his lady wife, from his family, for their entire marriage. It weighed on him, she could see that now. Would his burden have eased if there was someone who could help him shoulder it? Would hers?

Soon enough Arya found herself in the stables. One of the grooms rushed to her but she waved him off. The sun was low and Jon would be here soon. 

She walked until she saw the white locks of a smooth mane. Her Whisper. 

Jon had gifted her the fine white mare weeks ago on her thirteenth name day. Arya called her Whisper for she made only the softest huffs and whinnies. Despite her quiet nature Whisper was sturdy and fast. Arya had rained kisses on Jon’s face in thanks when he presented Arya with her. His cheeks had turned pink when she stepped away. 

That was a sweet day and she was in good humour. Not like this day which was proving to be a wretched one. 

Arya led Whisper out of her stable herself and her mare whinnied and nudged at her with her nose. 

“I don’t have any treats for you,” Arya stroked her nose. “When we get back perhaps.”

At the sound of light but solid footfalls she glanced away from her horse. It was Jon. She would know the sound of him anywhere. 

Whisper, still huffing under Arya’s attention looked to Jon too. 

“Are you ready?” he asked. He looked tired. It made Arya feel sad. Here he was dealing with running a castle and leading an army and she was about to lay more upon him. Was he even sleeping at night? The dark bruises beneath his eyes said otherwise. 

Arya climbed atop Whisper in response. He mounted his own grey mare and they led their horses past the yard to the woods. 

They kept their horses in hand as they carefully trotted through the tangle of weeds and gnarled branches that covered the earth. It was only after they made it to an easy path that Jon brought his horse to a brisk trot and Arya followed suit. 

The wolfswood was different in spring. The rains kept the ground moist and almost muddy. Flowers bloomed bright and the leaves were as green as grass. It was very pretty. Arya wanted to climb off her Whisper and pick some flowers for her bedside. However looking around she could see why many preferred not to enter these woods these days unless they had to. The trees dripped with moisture which gave the woods a thick air. It would have been unbearable to her had she not spent so much time in the secret city of Braavos. Crooked streets, crooked houses, crooked everything, grey and fog and thick heat; she had grown used to that. 

Jon was quiet so it fell to Arya to keep up the mindless chatter. She talked of everything from his aunt to the Imp to Bran to Rickon. She spent some time talking of Brienne of Tarth, the large lady in mail. She seemed like a brave lady and strong too. A much better protector for Sansa than Sandor bloody Clegane. She did not speak of Sansa or the Hound, not when so much of her was still wroth. 

It was only when she started talking of Gendry that Jon said anything at all. 

“Do you like him?” Jon asked. “The dirty smith.”

Arya rolled her eyes. Gendry had been travelling for weeks and it was not as though she herself was known for staying clean and presentable at all times. 

“Of course I do,” she responded. “He is my friend.”

Arya knew that was not what he was asking. Bran _had_  said that Jon was jealous and now, Arya believed him. Jon wanted to know if she fancied Gendry. That was … well Gendry was tall and powerfully built. Most maidens would dream of him in their bed if they had the chance. But he was her friend. One of the truest friends she had.

“A friend.” Jon repeated. “And that is all.”

She gave him a cutting look. “Even if it wasn’t you are the one I am going to marry.”

If he thought that she would ever –

She kicked her mare into a brisk canter and soon enough they were galloping; the wind was flying through her hair and grass and stone and flowers and trees turned into a blur of browns and greens, pinks, blues, and yellows, and greys.

She heard the _clop-clop_ of hooves gaining on her and it wasn’t long before Jon was just behind her. The sound of their horses and the increasing heaviness of their breaths was all she heard. 

Her cousin was as swift a rider as she and he had more practice than her as of late. Jon bound ahead of her and he pulled up in front of her. She drew the reins sharply so that Whisper halted with a soft neigh. In front of brown chestnut trees and oaks as ancient as the north itself Jon was looking at her exasperatedly. 

“Don’t be foolish Arya,” he said sharply. “These woods are filled with wild beasts. Riding off like that was unwise.”

She glared at him sullenly. How dare he chastise her as though she was naught but a child! She was beginning to get well and tired of that assumption. 

“I can draw my sword just fine on mount,” she replied defiantly. 

“And wield it too?” he questioned.

She drew her sword from its scabbard and held it in front of her. “Would you try me?”

Jon just seemed unimpressed. “Put that thing down. You’re like to cut someone’s throat with Valyrian steel. I’d rather it not be mine. Or yours.”

Arya deflated. It was stupid to draw your sword when you were not going to use it. She had heard Ser Rodrik say that to Robb and Jon once when they were little. She sheathed Dark Sister though her glare did not soften. He good and well knew she was a capable swordswoman. 

“Do you want to tell me why you want to duel for no reason at all or am I to guess?” he asked. 

“You can guess if you want to.” Arya said, feeling petulant. 

Her cousin did not respond. Jon was skilled in soothing her rages when he could and in ignoring them when he couldn’t. 

“I did not know you felt so strongly that you had to defend the honour of a bleeding smith,” Jon said stiffly after too long a silence. 

“It was not his honour I wanted to defend, you stupid,” Arya snapped. “It was mine.”

Jon seemed startled as he glanced at her. “Why do you need to defend _your_  honour?” 

Jon could be so oblivious sometimes. “I do not like Gendry in the way you’re implying. He’s my friend. And to suggest otherwise is just ... you’re such a ... you’re stupid.”

Jon set his dark eyes on her and they were inscrutable. It was hard to read Jon from his face alone but there were other things that told. The way he flexed his left hand on the reins said enough. 

“Forgive me sis – cousin. I did not mean to imply anything of the sort.”

He may not have felt properly chastened but he was contrite. 

Arya did not respond.

They rode until the reached a clearing. There were bushes laden with wildflowers and the grass looked soft. 

It was a good a place as any. She pulled Whisper to a halt and Jon stopped next to her. As she dismounted she looked to the sky, the pregnant clouds were grey. Rain would fall soon. 

Jon tied their horses and Arya lay her cloak of the ground for her to sit down. Jon fiddled with the reins for longer than he needed to. Arya sensed that he was nervous. Indeed when he stood and made to step away before awkwardly sitting next to her, she knew it. 

“I really did not mean to –”

“I know.” Arya admitted. 

Now that her anger was not as strong she could see where her rage at the Hound knotted with her annoyance at her sister and her irritation with her cousin; untangling her feelings was not the easiest of tasks. Riding helped. 

“Tyrion said that I act like a green boy on his first try at love,” he did not seem pleased. “He was rather amused.”

“Bran said that you were jealous.” Arya offered. 

“I was worried,” Jon protested.

“So you were trying to scare the scoundrels away from me with those icy glares?” she asked. “With just your eyes too. How impressive.”

He could tell that she was mocking him. “Gallantry is not just for knights,” he smiled. 

At least this one thing had not changed. They could always jape and act playful with each other. It was easy and in these moments they were the innocent children they once were, before the death, blood, war and misery changed their lives.

She rose to her knees and leaned towards him, “Well I am no maiden in a tower, but I shall reward you with a kiss anyway.”

She kissed him lightly on the lips. It was a light peck. A sister’s kiss. Innocent. It would have ended right there but Jon’s arm caught around her back and pulled her closer. 

It was Arya, though, who deepened the kiss, leaning towards him to press her lips harder against his. She felt as warm as though she had caught a fever but no – that was wrong, it was more like the warmth of a fire, the embers under her skin burning her up. The fire was only stoked when Jon slipped his tongue in her mouth. 

Her teeth clacked against hers and she would have pulled away then but Jon shifted his lips, licking into her mouth, causing her to shiver. But she wasn’t cold. Why would she shiver? 

On her knees stone bit into her flesh yet she could not bring herself to move. She felt like she was floating but his hands kept her in place like iron and Arya’s hands came to his shoulders. She clutched them trying to stay firmly on the ground. 

Was this how a dragon felt? Flying high and burning on the inside? She felt as though they would burn and burn until nothing was left but she did not feel scared or worried she only – _wanted_. 

Arya was woefully unprepared for this. For the way his tongue caressed hers lips, for how his nose bumped against hers, for the shiver that ran though her body when his tongue entered her mouth, for the sounds from her mouth that were muffled by their kiss, for how natural it felt being in his arms. 

The only other time she had kissed a man it was awful and uncomfortable and nothing like this. Fire kept rising up in her body, her cheeks felt flushed and her she could barely breathe. Yet she did not want to stop. It was Jon who pulled away eventually. 

She looked at him, open-mouthed but no words came out. She was not prepared for that. 

“I – we should not have –” Jon’s face was the colour of a red pepper and there was wonderment in the grey pools of his eyes. “I am sorry.”

“Do not apologise,” she said. “I ... liked it as much as you seemed to.” 

She was not prepared for that either. The amazement in his eyes mirrored how she felt. He wanted her. _Her!_  That was a strange thought. 

“Tyrion had the right of it.” Jon finally said. “He usually does.”

“Tyrion sees a lot.” Arya said as her hands dropped from his shoulders.

“We should not stay here too long.” Jon said still breathless. “Your uncle would have my head if he hears I am so long alone with you, dragon or no.”

“He does not like you very much.” Arya agreed. 

“Well he was close to your lady mother,” he replied as though it explained everything. And perhaps it did.

It made her sad. She liked her great-uncle Brynden Tully. He was clever and funny. In the weeks before Ned’s arrival she had spent more time with him and he proved good company. It made her rethink her initial rash judgement of him. Yet at every opportunity he would ask her if she wished out of her betrothal. He did not speak of Jon with much kindness. 

Her mother never did and what he knew of Jon came from her. Arya would have to try changing that. Ser Bryden was a Tully true. Iron to withstand the water. He would not bend. But she had to try. 

“And Lady Catelyn would not speak of me with too much kindness I fear.”

She had hoped that Jon wouldn’t mention Lady Catelyn this early. It felt as though she was doused with ice water. 

“About my mother,” she murmured.

“Apparently Ser Brynden had more of a point that either of us knew.”

“About my mother,” she said, louder this time capturing his attention. “There is something I need to tell you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was hard to write and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I was trying to get a lot in one kiss, the awe, the gaiety turned passion, the awkwardness, Arya’s inexperience. I hope that came across.
> 
> There should be about two more chapters left in this fic. Or three. I'm a rambler. Remember when I thought this portion of the story would only be 5 chapters?
> 
> I have a quick question for followers of the series: I know I've sort of left you high and dry in the romantic department thus far but I was considering writing another fic (before the time jump) depicting Jon and Arya spending time in Dragonstone, growing romance (actual romance) and of course, the first time they have sex. Would that be something you guys want?


	13. Confession

_She had hoped that Jon wouldn’t mention Lady Catelyn this early. It felt as though she was doused with ice water._

_“About my mother,” she murmured._

_“Apparently Ser Brynden had more of a point that either of us knew.”_

_“About my mother,” she said, louder this time capturing his attention. “There is something I need to tell you.”_

_*_

“What is it?” Jon asked.

Arya looked at him for a long moment trying to find the words. For a moment with her eyes upon Jon – Jon with his long face, grey eyes and dark hair she felt as though she was looking at Father.

A hysterical panic clawed its way up her throat and it was all she could do not to scream. Lord Eddard Stark was the last person Arya wanted to hear about this. She could not bear it. _No_ , she thought, staring at Jon, seeing him with her eyes. _This is Jon. My brother who will always love me._ He will not be happy about any of this but he will not hate her. Yet hate was not all. If he showed any revulsion towards her ... _He won’t_ , she thought. _He will not hate me or judge me. Jon will always accept me._

She took a deep breath before she sat in front of her cousin, folding her legs. She could do this. She was strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. She would look him in the eye and tell her truth. She was a wolf, fang and fur and claw, and nothing could frighten her. She plunged forward.

“I took her life,” she laid it bare. “I killed her. I had to.”

“Arya,” Jon said slowly. “Your mother was killed at a wedding.”

“I know. I know.” Arya said. “Just … let me finish.”

Jon looked at her dubiously but he let her go on. 

“Mother was killed by the Freys.” Arya said quietly. She almost stopped herself from biting her lower lip but she didn’t for she was someone, not no one, not blind Beth, not Cat or Mercy but Arya of House Stark. “They cut her throat so deep that they near took off her head and then they stripped her and threw her in the river if only to insult her.”

“I know of how she and … Robb were killed.” Jon was solemn. “When I returned to the Wall I heard more than I ever hoped to hear.” 

“You did not hear all,” Arya bolstered herself. “When I finally reached the Twins –”

Jon grew still. “Arya … by the gods.”

“Don’t – I … let me tell this,” she pleaded. 

Jon gave her a quick nod. 

Arya told him of the Hound stealing her from the Brotherhood and of how they journeyed to the Twins. She told him of how relieved she felt when they arrived, how quickly that relief turned to fear, how she saw men with direwolves on their surcoats being maimed and killed; the red, red rain that fell from steel, the piercing screams and that smell: the smell of death. 

She never saw her goodly mother or her brave brother whilst they were being killed. The flat of an axe to the back of her head saw to that. Perhaps the Hound had done her a kindness. 

Jon was pale as bone. His eyes brimmed with rage and … was that sadness or pity? She could not think on that. It would undo her. And she had to go on. She had come this far. 

Arya tried to keep water from falling from her eyes as she spoke of her wolf dream. Not a dream though. It was never just dreams. She had pulled her lady mother's naked and still bleeding body from a river. She used Nymeria's mouth to do it but it was her all the same. 

“Lord Beric found her soon after,” she said and she paused. “Six times a red priest had stolen Lord Beric from the gods before he stayed dead.”

Jon’s brows lifted. “Stolen from the old gods?”

Him of Many Faces was who she meant but that was not to be explained. The Many Faced God was not who she prayed to. Not often. Queen Cersei and Ser Meryn Trant were all who were left on her prayer. Soon Arya would have no need of him. It was the gods of blood and justice and trees and springs who she followed, the old gods of the North: the gods of her father. Life was not stolen from her gods. 

Arya shook her head. If Lord Beric's life was stolen from the gods then so was Jon's. She did not like to think of her Jon dead and cold if she could help it. She only wanted to see him as he was now, hale and strong and so very alive. One day death would come to them all of course – valar morghulis – but not today. 

“He had died before,” Arya explained. “And Thoros of Myr breathed fire and life into him.”

“Six times?” asked Jon, aghast. Arya nodded.

“He never stayed dead until he found Mother,” she said shakily. “Lord Beric kissed my lady mother and breathed his life into her, his last life.”

Understanding settled in his eyes. He had waked after dying too. But it was not the same.

“She wasn’t like you or Dondarrion. She was awful. More a monster than my mother. And she was in pain.” Tears fell from Arya’s eyes and she brushed them away angrily. She told herself that she would not cry.

She told him of what they called Lady Catelyn, what she looked like and the things she did. Of what became of so many of House Frey – the guilty and the innocent alike – and its weaselly liege due to her. And she told him of how she sent Needle through her heart to stop her. 

“I do not know why she could not be like you,” Arya said, helpless. “You died too and you’re still you. Scarred and burned and harder for it all but I still see Jon Snow when I look upon you.”

Death had a price and Arya knew that now better than ever but why did her mother have to pay it so severely? Her mother who used to frown and sigh and try to smooth her hair back and untangle it with her fingers when Arya and Bran had returned from duelling with branches in the godswood. Her mother who would kiss her atop her head before sending her off to bed. Her mother who would always scold her harshly when she did bad but would still smile at her and hug her the day after. Her mother who was a great lady, kind and courteous and full of grace. And her second life was … death and darkness. Arya had scarcely recognised her when she saw her again. At that thought a river flowed from her eyes. She cried like a stupid baby and though she tried the tears would not stop. 

Slender but firm arms wrapped themselves around her. Arya tried to control her breathing as salty tears fell on Jon’s tunic. She hugged him back, wrapping her arms around his side as she sobbed. 

It seemed that over the years she had cried enough tears to fill a sea. 

“Arya you did what you needed to. What you had to,” he said lowly. “From what you’ve said it was for the best. You let her rest.” 

That was her greatest hope, that her mother was now at peace yet for some reason his words brought forth more tears. She hated it. Crying in someone’s arms like a weak child. With anyone else she might have felt embarrassed but it was Jon. Jon had seen more of her tears than anyone else in this world from since they were little. 

He held her until her shaking subsided and still some time more after. Jon was always a comfort and she felt it keenly as he whispered soothing words into her hair.

Arya moved away from him after a while, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She composed her face, still as a pool, and looked up at Jon. His eyes were kind and she could see the worry in them. 

“I messed up your tunic,” she said lamely gesturing to the tunic soiled with tears and snot. 

“I have others,” he shrugged. “Arya –”

 “No one can ever know,” her voice was hoarse but steady. “It will shame you.”

Something flickered across his face, “Who else knows of this aside from me?”

“Some from the Brotherhood know. Harwin, Ser Edric, Gendry, Tom o' Sevenstrings and Lem of Lemoncloak were the only ones there when I killed her.” Arya said, thoughtfully. 

“You know their nature better than I. Will they speak?”

“Ned will be anointed later and one of the Queensguard for true but even now he is still sworn to your aunt, he would be silent for honour’s sake and Harwin and Gendry for loyalty’s. Lem would not believe that Lady Stoneheart was my mother but Tom – Tom is fond of wining and wenching and things oft slip out of his mouth.”

Tom seemed to have some fondness for her but would that be enough?

 “Tom?” Jon asked. 

“He is a singer,” Arya explained. 

“You’re fond of songs on occasion,” Jon folded his arms. “Perhaps we need a singer of our own, one in our pay.”

Well that might help. She would give Tom enough coin, not that gold truly bought silence but a closer eye could be kept on him and he would have a reason to guard his tongue. And no one but she, Bran, Jon and the Brotherhood would know. Then she would not bring shame upon her cousin and Sansa and Rickon would not find out and hate her for it.

“No one ever need know.” Jon said. 

“Good. I swear to you that I will not shame you,” Arya said fervently. “I’m no lady but I will try to be a good wife to you.”

Jon's forehead wrinkled like cloth. “You’re not just a lady Arya, you’re a princess and I have no doubts that you will make me a good wife.”

Arya cracked a smile at that. Jon was always sweet to her. “I know _you_ think so and so does Bran but not everyone thinks the way you do. If I were pretty and I wore gowns and baubles, if I cared about remembering my courtesies then perhaps I would agree with you.”

Jon sighed, “You’ve always been a pretty girl Arya but you’ve grown into a woman as beautiful and as lovely as any winter and as wild as the North.”

Arya did not know how to respond. Men called vulgar words to her which she was all too happy to ignore, her father and Jon called her pretty, Lady Smallwood and the kindly man called her pretty too and Bran thought her to be lovely yet no one had ever called her beautiful before; that was Sansa, poised and courteous and beautiful, not Arya who was wild and always scruffy, always dirty. But Jon spoke as if there could be beauty in wildness. True beauty. Could there be? she wondered. 

“I don’t care for a gentle woman who starts each sentence with ‘may I’ and ends them with ‘please’.” Jon continued. “I never have. You are brave, loyal and clever and as great a beauty as my own mother was ever famed to be.”

Arya gazed up into his grey eyes and looked with her own. It wasn’t just a kindness. He meant it, true.

She took his hand in hers and laced their fingers together.

“Once during my wandering I thought to myself that you would be the one person who would want me as I am. Not Sansa or my lady mother or even Robb. You,” she said ruefully. “I’m glad to know I was right.”

She leaned forward to kiss him and he kissed her slowly in return. It was less awkward than the last time and less fiery; not passionate or lustful, just solace. 

A drop of water fell on her head and they drew apart. Another drop fell and another and then another and like that a downpour of rain fell from the heavens. 

Jon quickly rose to his feet to untie the horses and they mounted them in a hurry. 

The rain poured on them as they rode back to the castle but Arya found that she did not mind. Not at all. In fact she felt lighter than she had felt in a long, long time. The rain soaked her to the bone as she steered Whisper through the wolfswood and it washed her tearstained face. Arya looked to the skies letting the water run over her face and laughed and laughed ignoring the queer look Jon sent her; without fear she was finally beginning to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you all see the promo pictures of the Stark family? Maisie looks so fierce and pretty and I think Kit was in the crypts (talking to his mama maybe?) Any more of this and my will may be broken and I may ACTUALLY watch a full season of this show for the first time in years.


	14. Feast

The feast had already begun by the time Arya and Jon made it back to the castle. Alla and Gilly were waiting for Arya in her rooms, likely by Sansa’s orders, to prepare her for the night. They got her out of her sodden leathers even as she grumbled that she could change on her own. They dried her dripping wet hair as well as they could and brushed it, they dabbed a smooth cream on her callused hands and put her sword to the side. 

Gilly remarked that in spite of being soaked to the bone, her cheeks were a splotchy red and her eyes were swollen so Alla put powder on her face. 

Arya bore it with nearly no sullenness but she drew the line at them trying to dress her in a purple, velvet gown with thick skirts she had never seen before that was most _definitely_ chosen for her by Sansa.

She would be uncomfortable in that dress but she knew that none of the simple, ragged ones she brought from Braavos would do. 

Except ... there was the one she had taken when she wore the face of a maiden under the tutelage of the Merling Queen, she had used nightshade to spice the wine of a man who had raped and killed the daughter of a wealthy merchant. Pretty enough. A simply cut gown made of peach silks, Braavosi in style but modest. It left her arms bare, was cut by her collarbone and while it cinched in around the waist it flowed like water, loose enough around the legs that if she had to run all that was needed was for her to lift the skirts slightly and none would notice the blades hidden upon her.

Her short hair was still damp; she left it unbound so it would dry quicker and allowed Alla to place a simple, silver circlet, a gift from her sister, atop her head. Arya did not bother gazing upon herself in the looking glass, she was already late and never too fascinated with her own reflection anyhow, worse now that she was brushed and powdered and draped in silks. 

The wildling girl walked with her to the Great Hall chatting happily about her babe called Sam. Arya kept up the conversation with minimal effort. It was strange. Gilly had an odd braveness to her, Arya had noticed, but she never talked to Arya much if she could help it. Arya wondered what changed. 

As Arya entered the hall her eyes searched the room. Along the dais sat Asha Greyjoy, Edric Dayne, Brynden Tully, Harrold Arryn, Sansa, Tyrion Lannister, Queen Daenerys, Bran, Rickon and Jon, there was an empty space next to him for her then Meera and Howland Reed and Garlan the Gallant.

She saw Gendry next to Harwin, Tom, Lem and Anguy on the benches below. Sandor was furthest away from Gendry but Tom and Lem were laughing with him. Arya had never seen Clegane look so ... happy. There were a dozen or so faces that she had never seen before, but all over the riverlands there were knights of the hollow hill, Arya did not presume to know them all. 

The Brotherhood’s arrival was the purpose of this feast. A welcome. Or at least that’s what everyone was told. Queen Daenerys wanted to see them in a room together where wine was flowing and pretty maidens flounced about. She wanted to see what sort they were. She was about to pardon them for their many crimes. It _was_ only fair that she observe them herself. 

Arya slipped to the head of the room with some notice from many others and sat next to her cousin. Lady Meera flashed a smile at her and Arya grinned. She quite liked the woman. She had a good heart and was fair with a spear in hand.

Daenerys glanced at Arya before standing, commanding the attention of the sea of people. 

“My lords and ladies,” Daenerys said loudly. “Princes and princesses, my valiant knights. It gives me great joy to announce that in one week, Prince Jon, the son of my brother will be wed to Princess Arya Stark, the daughter of Winterfell, before the eyes of gods and men.”

Arya was not entirely surprised and a quick glance at Jon said that he was not either. Daenerys had said that their marriage would take place soon before they march and with the news of Cersei's dastardly plan, they had not much time to spare.

Arya looked around and she saw her great-uncle's eyes filled with worry. Sansa, Bran and Tyrion seemed pleased. Ned, however, was frowning and there was confusion on Harwin's and Gendry’s face. Arya supposed the news of her betrothal did not reach the riverlands.

“I am pleased to also announce mine own betrothal to Lord Harrold Arryn of the Vale. He will be my consort and assist my ruling of the seven kingdoms and bringing about the justice and stability that Westeros has lacked for much too long.”

Lord Arryn grinned, glancing at Sansa and she beamed. It was a clever plan after all. Daenerys would be joined to four of the seven great houses through marriage. A loud cheer arose and only when the cheers died down did she continue. 

Daenerys smiled like a woman who knew what victory meant, “In two weeks much of us will leave this castle and march south. With valour and courage we will cast out the false queen and those who do her bidding. The Red Keep and the Iron Throne were built by dragons and to the dragons it will be returned. Too long has a reign worthy of Maegor the Cruel and Aegon the Unworthy plagued these kingdoms. I am the blood of Aegon the Conqueror and as he took the seven kingdoms before me, with fire and blood, so shall I! But for now,” she smiled widely. “We feast!”

Fists pounded against the tables in a steady rhythm, rising and rising until the noise drowned out even the loud sound of the rain. 

 “None can say that she does not know how to rouse her people.” Jon whispered into her ear.

Arya quirked her lips upwards but otherwise made no motion to respond. 

There was wine, mead and cider steadily being poured long before she arrived. A course of broth and turnips was served and after that barley and bread alongside suckling pig and capon with onions. Apple tarts were came after and Arya had asked for lemoncakes to be sent to the dais for Sansa's sake earlier in the day. Everyone ate with vigour. The idea of impending battles awakened these men as though they did not already suffer and grieve because of another awful war past. But then again some of them didn’t. 

Arya for one wanted the fighting to be over.

After she supped she left her seat on the dais and walked past the men on the benches to sit next to Tom. He was sitting far off on the end of the table next to Sandor Clegane.

She could endure his unpleasantness for a few moments to talk to Tom. 

“Good morrow,” she said and they both turned to her. 

“Hallo princess,” the singer’s eyes twinkled. “You look as sweet as the moonlit sky.”

“She looks pretty enough,” Sandor grumbled. 

Arya ignored him looking only at Tom. “That is very kind of you,” she said, only just remembering her courtesies.

“What did we do to earn your company?” Tom asked with a grin. Even without their pardons yet given this all seemed the most amusing joke to him.

“When I told Prince Jon of your talent he confided that he would love to hear you sing. He is ever so fond of songs.”

“There is one written about him that I heard,” Tom smiled. “Perhaps I could entertain him with it.”

Jon would hate that, she thought. “Oh you must,” she tried not to laugh. “There is nothing he would love more.”

Tom scampered off though whether it was because he was eager to win a prince’s favour or just to hear the sound of his own voice, she did not know. 

Being left alone with Sandor Clegane was not something Arya wanted but there was nothing to be done about it. She reluctantly sat opposite Clegane and faced him, but it was he who broke the silence.

“I see you’ve finally learned some courtesy,” he barked a short laugh. “And here I thought you'd be a wild little wolf until some man tamed you ... or cut your throat. Wildness and anger gets you one or the other, or both if you’re lucky.” 

A sweet tune cut across the room but the sound of growling in her throat was louder. Nymeria was near. She could feel it. She felt a spike of worry. Arya reached for her wolf and suddenly she was no longer looking at the burnt face of the Hound; she was walking along a stone passageway with her hackles raised. She heard man talk and man songs and she growled lowly. 

It was the scent of the one who often stroked her fur and kissed her neck that drew her towards this room. Her brothers were in the dark woods playing in black water as clear water fell from the sky and her little, grey cousins were further in the woods. She should be with them too. Her pack. 

Something in the back of her head told her to return. She whined at the sound. There was a rush of blood pulsing in the room and she wanted to taste it on her tongue. _Go back_ , she heard a voice say and she growled louder this time but she turned in the other direction. 

She bounded past stone until she reached the place with the big white tree. Her black, grey and white brothers howled at her presence and she let out a loud howl in return. This was her place. 

Arya blinked quickly before sighing in relief, not acknowledging the look of confusion the dog was sending her way. Looking at him she thought, better her direwolf stays away. 

“I _am_ a wolf,” Arya let her anger burn inside. Never mind her vacillating thoughts of the Hound – of Sandor Clegane. Anger she understood better. Anger she knew how to handle. “And I’d like to see someone try to cut my throat. I’d rip _theirs_ out in an instant.”

Sandor grunted in displeasure and nodded at Jon who was doing his best to not grimace as Tom sang his song, “That the brother you wanted me to take you to.”

She nodded curtly. He gulped from his cask and grinned. 

“If I had known that was why, I would have put you on a ship to take you far east” he smirked. “Seems wolves can’t tell the difference between sister and lover no better than lions.” 

She gave him a hard look. It was then that he stood and laughed loudly. It was all she could do not to dump his wine over his head as she watched him walk off. 

She glowered at the wooden table until she couldn’t see it. She knew that people would talk and speculate and sit in judgement, but to be compared to Cersei fucking Lannister. 

She heard heavy footsteps and someone smelling of ale and steel sat next to her on the bench. 

“Your dress is nice,” he said as a greeting.

Arya wrinkled her nose. “I would rather be dressed in breeches and leathers than in a gown.”

At that, Gendry grinned. “You’re still the same.”

There was some relief in his voice like he was happy that she was the same girl he'd known. He was wrong though. She was not the same as before.

“I see you’ve befriended my captor,” she nodded at Sandor who was off laughing with Lem and Ned. She had never seen the man laugh this much before. 

“Not I,” Gendry shook his head. “Before Thoros died he warned us to accept the help of a changed soldier from some isle of quietness that would pass our way. Said we’d know when we saw him. He’s ... different,” he admitted grudgingly. “Better even but that don’t mean that I forgive him.”

Arya felt warm. Maybe Gendry was a part of her pack after all. 

Arya felt eyes boring into the back of her head and when she looked around she saw Jon’s dark eyes on her. He smiled when she caught his eyes and turned back to Tyrion. Gendry noticed and frowned.

“You’re to marry your brother?” Gendry asked, uncertainty writ across his face. “Don’t your gods punish that sort of thing too.”

“I am not Cersei Lannister nor am I a Targaryen,” Arya said, perhaps a bit too snappishly. “Jon, however, _is_ a Targaryen, the son of my aunt and Rhaegar Targaryen.”

“I heard something like that but I thought he was your bastard brother,” Gendry replied not looking any more enlightened. 

“As did I.” Arya replied. “But he is my cousin truly.”

A mulish look came upon Gendry’s face and like that Arya knew that she was about to quarrel with him.

“But he was raised like your brother in this castle. Did he stop feeling like your brother?”

That gave her pause. Jon called her little sister as much as she called him brother. In truth a lot of the time Jon still felt like the older brother she had always loved. Other times though ... She remembered the feel of his lips on hers and wondered, what did that make her? Jon was lucky in a way. He was a Targaryen. This was sort of thing was expected of him. 

“He _is_ my cousin and in a week will be my husband,” Arya said stubbornly. “It does not matter what he feels like to me.”

Gendry gripped her shoulder with his large hand. He looked down at her and for a moment Arya wondered if he was part giant. It was said that Robert Baratheon fought in battle with a war hammer if Gendry looked anything like his father did in his youth she could see why.

“If you won’t be happy then he is cruel to wed you.” Gendry said.

“Don’t you say that!” Arya’s voice stayed low but it was laced with frustration. “Jon is not –”

“Is this ruffian bothering you, princess?” A cocksure voice interrupted them. It was Sansa’s Harry. “Lowborn bastards should know better than to touch a royal princess.”

Gendry's hand dropped from her arm and a blush of pink covered his cheeks even as his icy, blue eyes turned hard.  

“You shut up about him,” Arya snapped. “Gendry is a loyal friend and true and Baratheon blood runs through him. You’re speaking to the natural born son of Robert Baratheon.”

There was a sour look on Harry’s face as he strode off. 

“You didn’t need to defend me m'lady,” Gendry said gruffly. 

Arya shoved at him with a huff. “Of course I did you stupid. You’re my friend.”

Gendry smiled. 

“What will you do after all this Gendry?” Arya asked. “The queen will pardon you and then after our battles you will need work.”

He frowned. “I did not think too much on that. I could well die in battle. If not I’ll find an armoury to work in. Everyone always needs a good smith.”

“Just so,” Arya nodded. “I want you to come run the armoury at Dragonstone.”

“I don’t make no plans when I’m not sure I’ll even survive the battles to come.”

Arya was ready to argue with him when something behind him caught her attention. She saw Rickon nodding on himself on the high seat. It was late and the feast showed no sign of winding down. Bran was sitting next to their great-uncle and Lady Meera and conversing with them. Sansa was chatting gaily with Lord Harrold and Lord Tyrion. Queen Daenerys was sat high over everyone else, occupied with nibbling on almonds and overlooking the frolic. None of them had noticed Rickon and Jon was not to be seen.

“We will talk after then,” she relented with a frown. “I need to go see after my brother.”

Rickon was nodding on the table when she approached him, his eyes blinking slowly. He looked different when he was sleepy. Less full of life. Rickon reminded Arya of herself as a child. Always energetic, always searching for the next adventure. Sometimes she wondered what his life had been after winter came for their family. 

Behind her Jon approached and lifted Rickon into his arms. 

“I will take him to bed.” Jon whispered. 

Arya stroked her little brother’s auburn locks and smiled. 

“Sleep well, little brother,” she dropped a soft kiss on his cheek and he stirred a bit before nestling his face in Jon's neck. Rickon murmured something quietly and Jon grew pale. Arya almost asked him what was the matter but he shook his head and mouthed “Later” before walking out of the hall. 

Arya moved to the far, empty corner of the room and sat at the end of a long bench in silence. In a week she would be his wife. She felt more prepared for such a life than she ever had. Jon loved her and he would not try to tame her like the Hound said, or hurt her. He would not try to force a sword from her hand or make her sew and wear pretty dresses all the time and twist her hair into painful braids. 

Arya could even see herself loving him, as a woman does a man. His kisses were sweet and his hands held onto her as firm and strong as iron. When she lay with him, would it be the same? Would she make those silly noises she’d heard countless women make?

The sound of wheel cracking over stone drew near and shook those thoughts from her head. 

“Uncle Brynden worries over you,” Bran said stopping his chair right next to her as if he were at the head of the table.

“Over what?” she asked turning to face him. “Is it about our dear cousin again?”

“I have defended Jon to him, as you have.” Bran said with a smile. “I don’t think he believes that Jon will dishonour you if you’re left alone, well not anymore. Yet he worries about the match.”

“Why does he mislike him so?” she asked ignoring the soft footsteps accompanied by the rustling of silk that approached them.

 Bran shrugged. “I know not.”

“I do.” Sansa sent Arya a hesitant smile. 

Arya remembered their quarrel earlier. Arya simply nodded to the empty seat opposite her and raised a brow in question. 

“Littlefinger told me that Tywin Lannister sent a man North to be made Lord Commander. And then Jon was chosen.” Sansa sat opposite Arya. “Our uncle is not the only one to believe that he may have been in Lannister pay. Theon betrayed us easily enough.”

“Jon is not Theon.” Arya sighed. “But I suppose he would not know that.”

“He will learn it.” Bran said. “Uncle Brynden has agreed to stay in Winterfell as my protector and regent remember.”

Sansa smiled brightly. “He will do all in his power to protect you and help you rule. I know he will.”

The night grew later and many people were making their leave when Jon returned to the hall. Arya beckoned him over to them when she caught his eye. 

The hall emptied slowly and Arya was left alone with Sansa, Bran and Jon. 

“Rickon called me _father_ as I took him to bed. He started crying when he realised that I wasn’t. I stayed with him until his tears dried and he slept.” Jon said sadly. “Do you think he even remembers what Father looked like?”

Rickon was so young when they’d all left. His memories would be hazy at best. She only just barely remembered people she’d only known when she was three and Jon looked much like Lord Eddard.

“He remembered enough to confuse you with him,” Bran said with the twist of his mouth. “But there would be much more that he’d have forgotten.”

“I never said but Rickon thought I was Mother when he first saw me again,” Sansa admitted. “He wept when I hugged him and I near wept with him.”

“I'll tell him stories of them,” Arya said. “We all will. We won’t let him forget them.”

Sansa smiled at her, “We won’t.”

The last time they were all alone in the hall the air was thick with tension. They, all of them, were uncomfortable and sad. For some reason it was different now.

They sat on the low benches and spoke of Winterfell of old. They spoke of Old Nan with her tales or better yet her histories and Hodor and his “Hodors”, of Ser Rodrik and his gruff words, Hullen with his talk of horses and stables, Mikken and his endless complaints of steel and fire. They spoke of Jory and his bluster and of Alyn who wanted to be a knight, sweet Beth, and Jeyne with her gossip and laughter, they talked of Theon even, who never stopped smiling. 

They reminisced of the times when Robb and Jon crossed steel in the yard and how Bran and Arya would follow after them begging to join in on adventures and of Lord Eddard and his solemn lessons and his rare smiles that he saved just for them. Sansa reminded them of Lady Catelyn's laughter and gentle reproach and sweet hugs, sending Jon a quick glance as she did. 

It was only when they spoke of leaving Winterfell did the grief show on any of their faces. Sansa openly wept talking of Joffery's cruel call for the head of Eddard Stark. She had pleaded for mercy and he spat at that plea. He made her look at the head of their father dipped in tar. Arya felt ill. She was glad to know that absolute shit was dead. 

Bran told of the sack of Winterfell and of how blood and death and fire raged above while he hid in the crypts. His hands clutched at the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white when he told them what Winterfell looked like in the aftermath. The stricken looks on all their faces said all. 

Arya talked of what it was like at the Twins seeing Robb's men killed. She talked of dragging their mother out of the river and trying to get her rise. She did not say a thing of what happened after. Jon knew, Bran knew but that was where it should end. Sansa’s hand was clapped to her mouth as she sobbed and Arya saw that she was right to keep her secrets. 

Jon told them of what Winterfell was when he returned and the battle it took to reclaim it. Bastard against bastard. He told then of Jeyne Poole and what was done to her and how she helped in the fight for their castle. Hearing of Jeyne's plight caused Sansa’s eyes to harden and Bran's to cloud with grief. Arya hated the Bolton’s more than ever. They deserved to have their line die out.

A silence fell upon them. 

“I think we have lived through all the hells,” said Jon. 

“We endured though did we not?” asked Sansa, tearstains on her cheeks. 

“We are Starks,” said Bran. “We survive the winter and all that comes with it.”

Arya smiled remembering a day so long ago, “Father told me once that, when the snow falls, and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. For the longest time I believed him to be wrong. I suppose he was right after all.”

“He usually was,” Jon said. “He knew that winter would not last forever and we would need each other when it passed.”

“Life continues on,” Bran agreed. “We just have to remember to live it.”

Weddings and war, rebuilding and new rule. Life would continue and so would they. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is coming up and the wedding!!!!


	15. Wedding

Quick as a snake Arya slashed and sliced. She whipped her sword through the air and the sound of each _thwap_ and each _woosh_ told her where to go. She did not fall and she did not stumble. Swift as a deer she spun and she turned, her sword moving only when she wanted it to. The sound of shouts and jeers and whispers were far away and almost nothing at all. All that is and all that was became silent in her head when her hand held a sword and all she could hear was the swinging of steel and only what immediately surrounded her. She made a cartwheel and landed her sword against wood, quiet as a shadow, for only the resistance as the steel pierced the wood told her that she struck true.  

Only then did she take off her blindfold, blinking rapidly to readjust her eyes to the setting sun and the dusky skies.  

There were more than two dozen men watching her and talking amongst themselves. Arya frowned. She was not overly used to being stared at but she would have to grow used to it. She was sister to the Prince of the North and soon to be wife to the Prince of Dragonstone. She was Winterfell's Princess, a water dancer and a direwolf, brave and strong. She had the wolf blood in her. Arya lifted her chin. Let them look.

In a sea of faces she saw one moving in her direction, purple eyes and silver hair clad in silks of lilac walked towards her so gracefully it looked like she was floating. Missandei, her scribe, Irri, her handmaiden, and one of her Unsullied whose name Arya did not yet know, trailed behind her. 

“Your Grace,” Arya bowed. If Arya were another woman she would have felt embarrassed to greet a royal queen, sweaty and unkempt as she was but Arya had no such reserve. 

“Princess Arya,” the silver queen returned. “May we walk?”

“Of course,” Arya said. 

She fell into step next to the queen as they walked around the yard. Her man and handmaidens a respectable distance behind them. 

“You were rather quiet at supper.” Daenerys ventured. 

Arya supposed she was. It was just her, her family, the queen, and her Hand tonight. Sansa and Queen Daenerys wanted to go over the final details of the wedding. Arya had helped where she could for the past week, choosing the dishes, choosing her favourite flowers for wreaths and decoration, talking to the singers after Sansa did and reminding them to not sing the Bear and the Maiden Fair, the Rains of Castamare or any other song she’d heard was sung on that fateful day at the Twins but Sansa and Daenerys handled a lot of the finer details and her mind was far away as they supped.

“There was a lot on my mind,” she responded.

“I understand. You have quite a task ahead of you.” Daenerys said. “Stannis Baratheon did not leave Dragonstone in a prosperous condition before he marched.”

“I had heard.” Arya said carefully. 

Truth be told she had heard from Jon and from Samwell Tarly that Stannis took most of his men to march for the Wall after his failures at the Blackwater. Arya did not imagine that he left much gold or silver behind. Dragonstone was a damp and dreary island to hear of it with a burnt godswood; a sacrifice to the Red God. The idea of living in such a place, the idea of frequently travelling to King’s Landing when she did live there held little and less appeal to Arya. It was only the reminder that she would not be alone, would not be the only wolf on the isle that made the thought bearable.

“Well rebuilding will take up time for most of us,” Arya continued. “The war has gone on for far too long and it has not been kind. Yet you have an even more daunting task than I, Your Grace.”

“This I know,” said the queen, grimly. “My lady, the last thing in the world I would want is an unstable rule. I want peace and stability in the seven kingdoms and for that to pass I need an heir.” 

The queen could not herself produce one but Arya could. Her father once told her she would be mother to princes. At the time she had thought it a platitude that made little sense but he was right. How many things he turned out to be right about.

She knew of the queen’s plight and she did not wish to lie, “These things are not certain, Your Grace.” Arya said slowly. 

“I think you can call me Daenerys. I am to be your aunt by marriage very soon,” she said. 

The queen and her advisors had agreed to let she and Jon wed in the godswood in front of the old gods to appease their northmen and their faith but it was also agreed by all that after the Sack of King’s Landing, she and Jon would vow to be one another’s in the Great Sept in front of a new High Septon.

Arya did not keep the Faith of the Seven any longer and Jon never had at all but Daenerys named Jon her heir and keeping the peace with the Faith would be tenuous at best after Cersei's missteps. Arya wondered how long they would all have to spend righting the wrongs of those that came before them. 

“And you can call me Arya,” replied Arya with some relief. That was one more formality she need not always remember. 

They had nearly finished circling the yard when Daenerys turned to her, “I will be pleased to carry the burden of making sons to follow my reign myself, but if that does not come to be then that duty will rest on your shoulders.”

Arya nodded, solemn as ever. “Then I will try not to fail.”

“That is all I ask,” said Daenerys. “I do not mean to put pressure on you Arya, only to give you the bare truth of it.”

Arya nodded. She knew her duty and she would not shy away from it. 

“Your sister and I will be there as you prepare for your wedding,” said Daenerys. “My lord Hand and your brothers will be with Jon.”

Arya nodded quickly. “That is very kind of you.”

Now she would have to contend with the critical eye of the queen as well as her sister. _It makes no matter_ , she told herself. _Jon will approve of me no matter how silly I look._

She and Daenerys talked of trivial things, horse riding, flowers, even a little of Braavos until the moon started to rise and then they bid each other goodnight.

Arya had only just washed and changed into her linen shift when there came a knock on her door. 

Curious, she unbarred it only to see her sister standing outside holding a candle. She wore a shift and robe and her long, auburn hair tumbled to her waist. Arya was almost grateful. She was not yet tired and did not wish to be left alone with her thoughts.

“I thought that you might want some company tonight,” Sansa said, softly. 

“It’s nice to see you without your guard dog.” Arya replied.

It _was_ nice to see her away from Sandor Clegane. The man was like a great shadow, always behind her. Arya wondered how he found time at all to train with his sword. Even Brienne, who was as constant a companion, spent time in the training yard. The only person who hated his presence more than Arya was Tyrion Lannister. She had an ally in him at least.

Sansa breathed out with some amusement and closed the door behind her. 

“We haven’t shared a bed in years Arya,” Sansa said, resting the candle on her bedside. “Don’t start a quarrel.”

Arya rolled her eyes. She wasn't _trying_ to quarrel.  She sat on her bed, cross-legged and motioned for her sister to join her.  

“How do you feel about the morrow?” asked Sansa as she sat opposite her, the candlelight illuminating her face.

“Nervous,” Arya said. “A bit excited, a bit not.”

A bit scared is what she didn't want to say. Sansa seemed to understand anyhow.

“At least there’s nothing gruesome that Jon is hiding from you that you need to discover.” Sansa said, hesitant. “He’s just ... Jon.”

“According to Daenerys what’s hiding under his breeches should concern me the most,” Arya said. “Nothing gruesome. At least I hope not.”

Sansa giggled at that and after a few moments Arya laughed too.

“I meant that you know him,” Sansa said soberly, when her giggles subsided. “You two have never kept secrets from each other. I envy you that.”

Arya guessed that Sansa and Tyrion would have a chasm of secrets between them. 

“Your dress tomorrow is a beauty. I envy that.” Arya said. 

“Yours is far lovelier as befits the bride but I do so love the stitching on my skirts. And the bodice is cut perfectly,” Sansa started, eyes wide and bright.

The last thing in the world Arya wanted to discuss was dresses or needlework but it did the job of lightening Sansa’s spirit and all Arya had to do was nod as her sister chattered on. 

Shortly they were lying next to each other and talking of another wedding.

“Mother said it was a happy day,” said Sansa, wistfully. “Everyone said she looked beautiful and our aunt ... Aunt Lysa was a great comfort to her. She was not alone.”

Arya wondered why Sansa stumbled over their aunt’s name. Then she remembered that Sansa would have been there when that singer killed her. It must have been awful for her.

“Perhaps getting married during wartime is a blessing,” Sansa continued. “Mother and Father were happy weren’t they?”

“They were.” Arya agreed. “So happy.”

Sansa spoke to her of easy things. She seemed unable to stop talking of love and weddings, even talking of Florian and Jonquil, and Queen Naerys and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. Arya never paid much attention to those sort of stories, the ones full of chivalry and romance. Listening to them now, Arya found that she liked them not at all and soon enough her eyes blinked close and she drifted into slumber.

Almost as soon as she shut her eyes, a bright light shone in her face waking her. A shadow stood in front of her and she blinked quickly, her eyes adjusting to the sun, until the shadow turned into the image of her sister.

“The servants sent something light for you to break your fast,” Sansa said, decisively. “You should get up. I let you sleep for as long as I could.”

Sansa was indeed already dressed in a simple gown. She was determinedly chipper as they ate and Arya kept casting her curious glances. Weddings couldn’t make her _this_ happy.

Arya looked out to the sky, “It’s near midday.”

Sansa glanced out the window. “I suppose it is. I should go get prepared. I’ll be back soon, with your servants to help you dress.”

Her sister left and it was not long before Arya grew restless. She took her sword and started polishing it. Dark Sister already gleamed but she needed something to do and it was easy to get lost in the long even strokes.

Come midday Sansa reappeared already dressed in a gown of rich velvet, the red and blue of their mother’s House. In only a few moments came the queen in a blood red gown of samite, threaded finely with small, golden crowns and an elaborate crown atop her head. Sansa’s hair was tightly braided and fell down her back but Daenerys had hers swept up to give her silver hair the appearance of length. Alla, Gilly and Lyn came with the queen and almost immediately, Arya was dunked in a bath filled with sweet oils that smelled like winter roses. 

She was scrubbed and cleaned and her hair was washed. It was a testament to her strained nerves that she did not once complain. Not even as Gilly and Alla dressed her in silk smallclothes, a silk shift, stockings made of lambswool and a thick, silk petticoat, or when Lyn helped them lace her tightly into a silver bodice and a gown of ivory silk lined with grey and fitted sleeves made of cloth of silver and cut off with Myrish lace. 

Her hair was brushed and tamed with oils and thankfully kept simple with two braids tied back to keep her hair from falling into her face. 

“You look lovely milady,” said Alla with a confident smile. 

“You do look quite beautiful, Arya,” Daenerys said from where she sat on a chaise. “Like untouched snow.”

_A pretence at purity_ , Arya thought. _It would suit me better if the gown was splattered with crimson._

Arya stood in front of the full length mirror brought in from the solar of Daenerys' room and she bit her lip as she looked upon herself. She looked … almost beautiful, not at all like Arya Horseface. And the gown. It was laced too tight around her waist, the skirts were much too heavy and the sleeves made her arms itch but it was unquestionably lovely. It was intricately made and Arya felt out of place in it. She had never worn anything half as exquisite, even as a child in Winterfell. 

She cleared her throat uncomfortably and looked closer in the mirror, it was unlike herself to do so, but she wanted to see something of Arya Stark looking back at her. Her long face was smooth and unblemished by dirt or sweat, her usually unmanageable hair was smoothed and tucked away from her face but the eyes – those she knew; grey and wolf-like, there was a certain wildness about them that was familiar to her. Not a tamed wolf at all. 

When she turned around she saw approval in Daenerys’ eyes and pride in Sansa’s. It was disconcerting. She never remembered Sansa ever being proud of her, beleaguered, embarrassed, smug, even amused, but never proud. 

It did not hold the weight it might have once held all those years ago but it pleased her all the same.

Sansa came up to Arya to smooth out the pleat on her skirts. She wrapped her arms around her and Arya smelt the strong fragrance of lemon, “You are very lovely, sister. Mother and Father would be proud to see you now.”

They drew apart when the queen's scribe, Missandei, came rushing in with a mess of satin in her hands, “Your Grace, it is ready,” she curtseyed. 

Daenerys uncovered it from the girl's hands and revealed a small, golden crown encrusted with rubies. The rubies were Targaryen red but without them it would be a fairly simply designed crown. 

“I want you to wear this,” Daenerys said and she walked near. “To remind people that you will be a Targaryen princess now, as much as you are a Stark princess.”

She almost protested. The Kings of Winter never wore crowns with such ornaments, but Daenerys was right, she was to represent Dragonstone and the Red Keep as well as Winterfell, however, this much glamour overwhelmed her. She took the delicate crown, entirely unsuited to her, with hands as heavy as stones and gave it to Sansa to adjust on her head.

“You look like ... a true princess,” There was something sad in Sansa’s eyes as she said it. 

“We should leave,” Daenerys said then. “People will have gathered in the godswood by now.”

Sansa nodded certainly, “Bran will be here soon to escort you.”

Arya could not tell if it took her little brother moments or hours to come to her rooms after everyone left. 

Bran smiled brightly as he wheeled himself into her rooms. “You look lovely,” he said, gently. “Are you ready for this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

They left her rooms and headed to the godswood. Winterfell was still filled with people. Not everyone would be at her wedding, or even in the Great Hall for the feast after but they still grinned and called out compliments and well wishes as she and Bran passed by. For some reason, though everyone else was all smiles, Arya could not return them.

Gnarled branches canopied over them in the dark godswood when they finally arrived and men and women, lords, ladies and knights lined up to watch them, all garbed far finer than any of them had been since arriving to Winterfell. Arya could not spend too much time looking at anyone else. Jon was standing up ahead in a doublet of Targaryen colours.

Arya stopped next to Bran and looked at Jon. He stood strong and straight. He looked every bit a prince and lord. She only hoped she looked her part, if only for this one moment. 

“Who comes?” Jon’s strong voice resounded throughout the godswood. “Who comes before the Old Gods this night?”

Arya walked in a direct line to the heart tree with Bran rolling his chair beside her. She walked slowly to accommodate the tangles of roots that would impede her brother's chair. 

“Arya, of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman flowered, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” Bran stopped his chair a stone’s throw away from the heart tree.

Jon stepped forward to meet them, stopping just in front of them, “Jon, of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Seven Kingdoms. Who gives her?”

“Brandon, of House Stark, her brother, Lord of Winterfell and Prince of the North. Princess Arya, do you take this man?”

Many eyes watched on in interest. Northern weddings would be quite strange to many standing in the godswood she’d imagine.

“I take this man,” she called out,” her voice, thankfully, held firm. 

Jon held out his hand and Arya took it in hers. His hand was warm and it grasped hers firmly as they knelt before the tree.

_Gods of my father, gods of mine,_ she prayed. _Please give me happiness and peace with Jon. Let them all learn to accept him, accept us. Give me these blessings. I’ve endured enough and spilt enough blood for you. Give me these blessings._

Jon stood and Arya kept kneeling. She had discussed this part with Bran beforehand. Her little brother whisked her maiden's cloak from her shoulders with a flourish and it was then that Arya stood and let Jon replace her cloak with a black one emblazoned with the red, three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.

Jon kissed her chastely before the gods and a loud cheer brought them apart.

Her siblings were the first to come forth to congratulate them, then came her good-aunt and her good-brother, and soon there was a flurry of kisses to her cheeks and holding of her hands from the ladies present and the rambunctious well wishes from lords and knights.

Arya could hardly focus on their words or even on the food at the feast later. She sipped her wine and refused all dishes offered to her. Toasts were made that she could barely listen to and she barely ate anything that was laid before her. No one else had any such worries. People heartily shared meat and mead and the soft swell of music arose.

“You should lead the dancing,” Sansa whispered to her.

Arya turned to Jon and perhaps she could have been more courteous but she just nodded at the floor and raised a brow. Jon seemed amused and stood in response, leading her onto the floor. 

Arya had forgotten some of her lessons in courtly dancing but she was lucky enough to be rather graceful and so she did not trip over Jon’s feet as they danced. Soon after, Daenerys and Harold Arryn joined them, then Garlan the Gallant and Asha Greyjoy, even Sansa and Tyrion. Despite his comments of his dancing being comical, he danced well enough for a dwarf. 

Jon looked down at her, “You look beautiful.”

He sounded so sincere she could not doubt him. “You look very dashing too.”

He snorted discourteously and she laughed. 

“Well believe me or not, but the battle scars lend an air of mystery,” said Arya. “Not every woman can boast that her husband was attacked by skinchangers, Others and death itself and is alive to tell the tale.”

“Doesn’t that feel strange?” Jon asked. “To call me your husband?”

“The strangest,” she agreed.

“At least this means we will always have each other,” he said. “After the wedding and bedding is when a man is truly strapped to the bed of responsibility, Tyrion says. His way of reminding me of my duty I’d wager.”

Arya would have smiled but her mouth felt as though it was full of wool. Jon was right. The only thing that eased her apprehension about being thrown in world full of the unknown was that she had Jon to navigate it with. And she knew her duty as well as Jon. So why did she feel such unease? Jon kept blessedly silent when he noticed her disquietude.

She danced with her uncle after, who was a fair dancer. 

“I am very happy for you my lady,” he said. 

“Are you?” she asked, more than a little incredulous. 

“Well you and Bran keep barking my ear off about your husband,” he relented. “I don’t suppose he could be _that_ awful and still garner so much love and support from you.”

Arya bit her lip, “You pretend to be hard and tough but you’re really just a sweet man, uncle.” 

He looked down at her with a queer glint in his eyes. “Your mother said something of that sort to be once. It was after I tried to scold she and her sister for running off into the woods looking for adventures. They got lost of course and Littlefinger returned them days later, dirty and bedraggled. Catelyn persuaded Lysa to go along of course. Your mother was always excited for the next adventure, Lysa only cared for the excitement found in songs.”

Arya felt shocked. That sounded nothing like the mother she knew but before she could ask him more the dance called for a change of partners and she found herself paired with Garlan Tyrell, making polite conversation. And then with Ned, doing much of the same. 

She allowed herself to be twirled about the room a few more times until she claimed exhaustion. She was not tired, not truly, but the night was growing late; her hands were clammy and her bottom lip was chapped from how often it found itself caught between her teeth. 

She went back to her seat just as Jon was finished dancing with the queen.

Arya poured herself some wine and drank it all in two gulps. She poured herself another cup but before she could drink she felt the presence of her husband – that would take some getting used to – behind her.

“Come,” Jon whispered in her ear. “If we leave now, no one will notice or call for the bedding.”

Arya gave him a grateful smile and they slipped out of the hall together. Tyrion noticed their leaving, as did Sansa and Ned but none of them called attention to it.

It felt as though a weight was lifted from her shoulders. The thought of bedding ceremony had alarmed her. She had never thought about it much before but she knew how it went. The randy japes, she could take, even being near undressed in front of a group of men, but being grabbed and having her clothes torn? One of her blades would find itself in a man’s eye and what a scandal that would be. 

Jon led her to his rooms instead of hers. He still slept in the lord's room in the keep. Bran said he was fine with moving in after they left for South.

Standing in the large room next to Jon was far more awkward than she’d expected. She had a duty. Yet there was an empty pit in the middle of her stomach. Was it fear or nervousness?

She turned away from him and tried to undo her gown but her fingers had grown thick and clumsy and she fumbled with the laces until she dropped her hands in exasperation. 

“Will you – will you help me?” she huffed. “I can't reach.”

Arya felt him come up behind her and move to unlace her dress. His hands fumbled with the back of her dress as much as hers did – she supposed Jon had little to no experience with undressing a highborn woman – but he got it done.

She felt his hot breath on the back of her neck and she had to force herself not to shiver. He pushed her dress off her shoulders and suddenly she felt more nervous than before as the dress fell to the ground. 

She stepped away from him quickly, “I can do the rest.”

Jon whispered his agreement and moved from her. She made quick work of her girdle and bodice, her undersilk and her smallclothes. She kicked off her slippers and put her fingerknives and her daggers on the bedside. When she wore her name day gown gooseflesh rose on her body but she was not shy about being naked in front of Jon. 

She looked up at Jon and he was looking at her many blades with an amused smile. “Did you suspect you’d need all those?”

Arya shrugged, “I could have done with one or two less but I was not certain if there’d be a bedding or not.”

Jon raised his brows incredulously, “And who was to be on the end of one of those blades.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Not you. But if anyone tried to rip my dress ...”

Jon drew near and wrapped his arms around her waist. He had only managed to get his doublet off and the silk of his tunic felt smooth against her skin. She relaxed as his lips captured hers in a kiss, bringing her hands around his neck and pulling him closer. 

If kissing Jon would always feel like this, warm and sweet, she could do it for a long time. 

They had kissed like this twice since that day in the wolfswood so they had fallen into a rhythm. This time Arya knew to open her mouth and let his tongue in yet she felt just as overwhelmed as before, holding onto him tightly. 

Heat rose within Arya’s body and so did the need to breathe, she gasped as she pulled away and he switched his attentions to her jaw. His tongue traced the curve of her neck and she shivered even as heat spread through her body, hot and cold at the same time. 

One of her hands came to his hips and the other slipped in his leather breeches, she felt the hardness of his cock for only the briefest of moments before his hands stilled hers. 

Jon pulled away from her, his breath coming in short bursts. “Arya we can't.”

“Why not?” she asked, wounded.

His manhood was hard. She felt it briefly before she drew away and she could see it now. He wanted her, that much was clear.

“Arya you’re … you’re too young. I don’t want to hurt you.” Jon said flexing his hands. 

She shook her head, not understanding, the first bedding hurt for every woman and Jon would not hurt her more than ought. “You won’t hurt me.”

“My mother was older than you when she bore me and her body could not endure it. I was born in a bed of death,” his voice was pained. “I will not kill you too.”

She wanted to tell him he was being stupid. It made no matter if she was one and three or thirty and one, women of all ages could die on a birthing bed. But one look at his face told her that anything she said would not work. Jon could be as stubborn as she.

“When you’re older we will lie as man and woman but for now …” his voice trailed off.

“You will not bed me.” Arya finished his sentence. 

Jon shook his head, resolute. 

Arya chewed on her lip before shrugging her shift back on. She walked to the corner of the bedchamber until she found what she sought. She tossed it over Jon's shoulders and grinned. 

He tugged the cloak around himself. A grey cloak with a direwolf emblazoned on the back. Her maiden's cloak.

“You’re cloaking me?” Jon looked both bewildered and amused.

“Yes,” Arya replied. “I am yours now, to love and protect but you are mine too.”

Jon pulled at the cloak with some awkwardness and Arya knew why. He would not see it as her unmanning him the way another man might; his cloak of protection shrouded her in the fold of House Targaryen and her maiden’s cloak did the same to him but for House Stark.

“You are as much a wolf as you are a dragon.” Arya said firmly. “Aunt Lyanna is a part of you and so is Father, and Robb, and Bran ... and me.”

“Arya,” he pressed his lips to her forehead, gratified. “Thank you.”

They were one now. Wolf and dragon. Ice and fire. Stark and Targaryen. One flesh, one heart, one soul, he held her close in his arms and she felt the peace she asked the gods for. Her only prayer now was for it to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright WOW. I can't believe I actually finished this section of this fic. This turned into something far longer than I expected but I'm so happy about it. Stay tuned because the Dragonstone fic is coming next.


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